Tough Love (4 page)

He walked into the reception area. The flock wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the gold desk was shabby. Behind it sat a young woman, about twenty, wearing a see-through baby-doll négligée, flicking through a copy of
Heat
magazine. When she saw Markie she jumped to attention. ‘Markie.' She flushed and pulled at the négligée self-consciously. This pleased Markie. He knew he was good-looking, but not in that pretty-boy Brad Pitt way. Women always fancied him, but he hadn't been sure he still had the touch, having been out of circulation for all this time.

‘Hello, darl.' He walked round the back of the desk, pressed ‘No Sale' on the till and looked at the notes in the drawer. He counted out two hundred pounds and pocketed the money. Then he took the car keys out of one of the change compartments. He looked at the girl, who was gazing at him, mesmerised, and read her name badge. ‘Not got a kiss for Daddy, Cleo?' She smiled at him gratefully,
and dropped to her knees. Markie guided her head to exactly where he wanted it. There was nothing better than a good blow-job after a long stretch, he thought, as he watched the eager Cleo bobbing up and down.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of Pandora's and over to the Range Rover Vogue that was parked next to the Astra he'd just dumped. It was exactly where his mate Swing had said he'd leave it. Good lad, thought Markie. He jumped inside and turned on the heated leather seats, then fired up his beast of a car. He loved this one. He pulled out from the kerb and pointed it in the direction of the motorway. He had to be home soon, or he'd be wearing his bollocks as earrings. He scrolled through his phone until he came to ‘Mandy' and pressed dial.

The phone was answered almost immediately.

‘Markie!' a voice shrieked. ‘Need me to pick you up?'

‘Nah, babe, I'm sorted. Just some business to attend to first.'

‘Aw! I've missed you so bad.'

‘I've missed you an' all. All set for the big day, sweetheart?'

‘I'm dead nervous. But the dress fits perfectly. Two weeks to go. I can't believe it!'

‘Why you nervous?'

‘Just our families. I don't want a big kick-off when they all get pissed. And I swear to God, if
your Leanne turns up wearing white and tries to upstage me …'

‘Keep your knickers on. Our Lee wouldn't do that.' Although our Jodie might've. Good job she's a bridesmaid and has to wear what she's told, Markie thought.

‘Are you nervous?' Mandy asked. She had been planning their big day since Markie had been sent down.

‘You know what?' Markie thought about the servicing he'd just received. ‘I couldn't be calmer.'

*

It had been two weeks since Leanne had parted company with Jenny and she'd lined up a meeting with another glamour agency, Coco Management. It wasn't as well regarded as Pink, but she hadn't had the nerve to ring Meagan back after what she'd heard. Kia was at school and Leanne was getting ready to go out.

The last few weeks had been a struggle. She had never been under the illusion that she was surrounded by friends in London. But she'd thought she might be able to call on a few old acquaintances to help her until she was back on her feet again. She had fifteen thousand pounds outstanding on credit cards, her rent was fifteen hundred a month and then she had to live.

When Jenny had given her the boot, Leanne had had two thousand pounds in the bank. This had dwindled to nothing. What have I spent it on? Leanne fretted.

The hard fact was she had spent it on a lifestyle she'd been told she deserved but couldn't afford. When she was growing up she'd go to the pub, have a few vodka-and-oranges and get in free to any club in Bradington, thanks to Markie. But in London she had quickly become accustomed to the champagne lifestyle she had encountered at Atlantic and China Whites – the places to be when she had first arrived. Often the drinks were free but when they weren't Leanne might find herself spending more than a thousand pounds on a night out with her friends.

When any of her family visited Leanne would put them up at the Dorchester or Claridges; she wanted to show them how well she was doing and the only way she knew to do this was to splash the cash she'd never had before. She'd stopped thinking about the value of a pound and bought whatever she'd liked the look of. The same went for Kia. All of the little girl's clothes were designer, all of her bedroom furniture was from Selfridges. Nothing was too good for Leanne's child. Leanne had an accountant but he told her when her tax was due, not what she could and couldn't buy.

When she had called a couple of the girls she
had modelled with over the past few years, girls she had helped when they'd started out, she had been gutted to discover how quickly people could turn their backs on her. She just needed a couple of grand to tide her over but no one wanted to help. She should ask Markie, she knew, but something was stopping her. They used to be so close, but she'd only seen him twice since he'd been inside – she couldn't just turn up on his doorstep now and ask for two grand. Anyway, you never knew with Markie: he was flush one week and on his uppers the next. Leanne knew she had to get herself out of this situation, but she didn't know how.

She sat at the solid oak table in the beautiful marble kitchen, neither of which she owned, and began to flick through her portfolio. Looking back on her nine years of modelling, she felt a mix of nostalgia, pride and sadness. She had been so young when she'd started out. So fresh-faced. There was the picture of her in the Maldives, wearing a bikini bottom made of shells. She looked so happy. She had been so happy. Then there was the one of her at the carwash – it had become a massive-selling poster all over the world. If Jenny had been a better manager, Leanne would have got residuals on that, but as she was young and starting out, Jenny had agreed a one-off fee.

Leanne shook her head as she turned another page. Her heart thumped when she saw the picture
she hadn't looked at for seven years. There she was, painted in the colours of the famous football club, surrounded by the first team. And there he was. She flipped the page. She needed to be in the right frame of mind for her meeting, and daydreaming over pictures that stirred old memories wouldn't help.

With everything ready, Leanne checked her reflection in the mirror one last time, grabbed her bags and coat, then went to switch on the alarm. The intercom buzzed – she'd had it fitted when she was being pestered on a daily basis by the papers. She wasn't expecting anyone, but answered it anyway. ‘Hello?'

‘Delivery for Ms Crompton.'

‘Won't be a minute.'

As she opened the door a stocky man in a balaclava burst in, grabbed her by the throat and hit her. Leanne screamed and reeled back against the wall. He pressed his mouth to Leanne's ear and spoke in a low, menacing voice: ‘Rumours are circulating about that bastard kiddie of yours and who its daddy is.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Leanne said. Her voice shook with terror.

‘I think you do. You're on your arse and you need some cash. Well, be a good girl and just keep getting your tits out to pay the bills, yeah? Don't want you resorting to any funny business.'

Hot, panicky tears stung her eyes. She fought them back.

‘If our friend – and you do know who I'm talking about, sweetheart, don't muck me around – is in any way implicated, you're dead meat, understand? He's got a wife and a reputation to protect, and we don't want the good British public thinking he's a naughty boy, now, do we?'

Leanne shook her head. The man loosened his grip round her neck.

‘Good girl.' He walked out, unrolling the balaclava – Leanne glimpsed the back of his bald head – and closing the door behind him. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing.

Leanne was standing outside a modern apartment block at the back of Spitalfields Market, pressing the door buzzer. This once run-down area of London was now
the
place for trendy young things to live, and Jenna James was the country's current favourite. She had been plucked from obscurity in the North East by the pop mogul Ian Welsh to front his new band, Girls on Top. Leanne and she had been introduced on a night out and at first Jenna had been star-struck, telling Leanne how amazing she was. Leanne had taken the flattery lightly, knowing that the then eighteen-year-old was nervous.

As the night wore on, the pair became separated from the group they were with, and Jenna had broken down, crying, telling Leanne she was homesick and felt out of place in London. Leanne empathised with her. She knew exactly what Jenna meant when she said she felt stupid opening her
mouth. It didn't matter how successful Leanne became, she was still intimidated by the people around her in the capital. Everyone seemed cleverer, wittier and sharper than she was. Hearing Jenna say that she felt the same had been a blessed relief. She was so used to young starlets who were utterly confident in their own skin.

But that conversation with Jenna had been five years ago and she was now engaged to one of Britain's most bankable actors, her solo album had just been released to rave reviews and she had her own clothing range in Topshop.

At last Jenna's breathless voice said, ‘Hello?'

‘It's me,' Leanne said.

‘Who's me?' Jenna asked, sounding rushed.

‘Leanne,' she said, a little irked but trying not to show it. Jenna buzzed her in and she waited for the lift, hoping that her friend would help her make sense of everything that was happening to her. She needed someone else who was public property to tell her not to worry, her profile was high enough for her to get other work. Leanne knew that if she was on her own she could stay in London and slog it out. Something would turn up. But she had Kia to think about: she needed to know where the next pay cheque was coming from.

As the lift door opened, Jenna was hopping into a leopard-print stiletto. ‘Aright, darlin'?' she said, in her Newcastle brogue.

‘Hiya,' Leanne said. ‘How are you?' Jenna was obviously great, she thought, looking at her friend's long tanned legs and perfect honey-highlighted hair.

‘I'm all right, but I've got to be in Soho in an hour,' Jenna said.

Leanne's heart sank. When she had texted Jenna to meet up, she had asked if she could take her out to lunch for a heart-to-heart.

‘Leonardo DiCaprio's manager wants to meet me. I got my agent to tell him if he thinks I can act then he's barking up the wrong tree.'

Leanne smiled weakly. Leonardo's
people
were talking to Jenna's
people
. Great, she thought. She'd forgotten what it was like to have ‘people'. ‘Cool,' she said. ‘You're doing so well, aren't you?'

‘Well, I'm OK, I suppose.' Jenna shrugged. Under-statement of the century, Leanne thought. ‘What's up with you? You sounded like your knickers were in a bit of a twist in your text. Coffee?' She went into the kitchen. It was huge, bigger than Leanne's entire house and far more upmarket. The appliances were stainless-steel Miele and the utensils were Philippe Starck design classics. Leanne was lucky if she could find a spoon that didn't look as if Uri Geller had been at it.

She weighed Jenna up for a moment. Five years ago she'd have been able to say to her, ‘I'm on my arse, Jen, and I've no idea what I'm going to do.'
That had been when Jenna thought Leanne held the keys to the celebrity kingdom and knew exactly what she was doing. But today Leanne felt she was a mild inconvenience to her friend. ‘I've had a run of bad luck, and I just wanted to see a friendly face,' she said.

Jenna was filling the coffee machine. ‘Aw, babes.' She stopped what she was doing, tottered to where Leanne was standing and gave her a limp hug. Leanne patted Jenna's back – she didn't know how to respond. What she needed now was a big bear-hug and someone to say, ‘Don't let the bastards get you down.' She was beginning to think she'd come to the wrong place. ‘Come on, tell us what's wrong.'

Leanne looked at Jenna, with her great career and her fabulous life, and realised there and then that Jenna wasn't interested in her, and who could blame her? It wasn't that Jenna was a nasty person, far from it. She was a sweet-natured girl, but she didn't want to hear about Leanne's problems. They weren't true friends. In the public's mind they were bosom buddies because they had been photographed together many times, but they rarely saw one another. ‘I'm just a bit down. But I'll be all right,' Leanne said, forcing a smile.

Jenna looked relieved. ‘Course you will, chicken,' she said brightly, clearly glad that Leanne hadn't turned up to burst her celebrity bubble.

Half an hour later, Leanne was walking towards Liverpool Street station with a heavy heart. She had to be at Coco Management for three o'clock but until then she was free. Jenna had left her with a smile and a promise that they'd go out for drinks soon, but Leanne had a sneaky suspicion that that would never happen.

She grabbed her phone as she walked along and scrolled through the address book. Then she stopped and leaned against a wall. A shocking thought had occurred to her. At her lowest ebb, there wasn't one person she could call on in London. All of the people she had ever hung around with in the city she had met through work and she knew that, like Jenna, they would only be interested in her if things were going well. The people who
would
listen to her and actually care were more than a hundred miles away in Bradington. She scrolled to ‘Mum' and pressed call.

‘Bloody hell, stranger, we thought you'd fallen off the face of the earth,' Tracy said. Leanne tried to reply but the lump in her throat turned her voice to a squeak. ‘What's up wi' you?' Tracy asked, in her usual brash way. But, brash as she was, she was still Leanne's mum and the person she needed to talk to now.