Shafted (2 page)

‘Okay, Cindy, my darling, get this right and you’ll steal the money. Ready?’

‘I think so,’ Cindy gasped, her heart thudding in her chest as Larry’s hand slid from her hip to the curve of her buttock. She’d loved him from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him, and she couldn’t believe that she had finally made it onto his show. And not only was she in with a real chance of winning, but she just
knew
that he fancied her, because he’d been winking at her all day and giving her that super-sexy grin of his. And now he was actually touching her bum!

Stumbling slightly as an alcohol rush threw his head out of whack, Larry dropped his question cards. Muttering ‘Shit!’ when they landed question-side up on the floor at Cindy’s feet, he reached down and snatched them up. ‘Sorry!’ he said, waving them at the camera. ‘But don’t panic, she didn’t see them . . . You didn’t, did you, darlin’?’

‘No.’ Cindy shook her head innocently.

Feigning a cough to bring himself under control as he felt a sudden urge to laugh, Larry said, ‘Sorry, folks, frog in the throat . . . better than
cancer
, though, eh?’

Waiting for the smattering of nervous audience laughter to die down, he turned back to Cindy.

‘Right, then . . . for a chance to win ten thousand pounds, can you tell me the name of Britney Spears’s last husband, Kevin Federline?’

‘Moron!’ the floor manager hissed, standing in the shadows beside the camera. Stepping forward now, she waved her arms to attract his attention.

Frowning when he saw her, Larry shrugged, and mouthed, ‘
What?
’

‘
You gave her the answer
,’ Anne stage-whispered, jabbing a finger at the question card. ‘Ask her another! Ask . . . her . . .
another
!’

‘Oh, right,’ Larry murmured. Then, giving a cheeky grin to camera, ‘Sorry ’bout that. Seems I made a bit of a boo-boo. But ’s all right. Just gotta ask another question.’

Rifling through the cards now, he pulled one out at random and looped his arm around Cindy’s shoulder.

‘Okay, my darling, for ten thousand pounds, can you tell me . . . why the hell Madonna picked Guy Ritchie over me?’

Cindy peered up at him confusedly. Then someone in the audience started laughing, and everyone else quickly followed suit – Larry included.

Alan Corbin, Oasis TV’s Head of Light Entertainment, was far from amused. Storming into the editing suite, he yelled, ‘Get him off!
NOW!
’

‘He’s on the last question,’ Jeremy said, trying desperately to remain calm even though he knew it could only get worse. ‘If we just—’

Corbin wasn’t listening. Eyes bulging from their sockets, he stared at the monitor screens and yelped, ‘What the bloody hell’s he doing
now
?’ in a voice several octaves higher than was healthy for a man of his age.

Down below, Larry had totally lost it. Clutching at Cindy with tears of laughter streaming down his face, he’d managed to snap one of her flimsy shoulder straps, revealing one of her bare breasts.

‘Oh, my God!’ Corbin croaked as the studio audience erupted with male approval and female disapproval. Shoulders slumping, he sank down on a vacant chair and dabbed his handkerchief over his sweat-slick face. ‘We’re fucked!’

‘Not necessarily,’ Jeremy muttered, pushing sliders and pressing buttons on the master control panel. ‘We’ve still got time-delay on our side. Any luck, we’ll black-screen before anyone spots the tit.’

‘Bit late for that,’ Frank interjected bitterly. ‘They’ve been watching him for the last half-hour.’

Ignoring him, Jeremy carried on with what he was doing. Then, sighing with relief after a moment, he said, ‘We’re off air.’

‘What about the tit?’ Corbin wanted to know. ‘Have you caught it in time?’

‘Soon know,’ Jeremy told him, turning his attention to the live-stream monitor.

Everyone in the editing suite held their breath as, on screen, Larry reached the point where he’d dropped the question cards. Snatching them up again, he started to ask the Britney Spears question, but just as he reached the point where he unwittingly supplied the answer, the screen went blank, and seconds later a ‘Technical fault’ warning flagged up, followed by the help and appeal-line numbers, and a pre-recorded voice-over by Matty Kline, the comedian who was compering the telethon, urging people to ‘
Keep ringing in those donations, guys, ’cos every little helps!
’

Excusing himself now that the worst of the disaster had been averted, Jeremy rushed down to the set to try and salvage what was left of the show. Grabbing Larry, he frogmarched him to the studio door and ordered him to go and get himself sobered up. That done, he asked Matty Kline to stand in and wrap
Star Struck
up.

Frank Woods and Alan Corbin were in the middle of a hushed but obviously heated discussion when Jeremy got back to the editing suite: Corbin was telling Frank that Larry had to go, but Frank was in no mood to be dictated to. Bad as it had been today,
Star Struck
was his baby, and he was proud of its success. And he wasn’t about to risk a drop in the ratings by replacing Larry – not on Corbin’s say-so, anyway.

‘You’re overreacting,’ he told Corbin now. ‘The viewers love Larry, and they won’t hold this against him. We’ll just issue a statement saying he was doped up on flu medication, or something.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Corbin snorted contemptuously. ‘Any idiot can see he’s steaming. And, to be honest, he’s not good enough that I need to be putting myself through this kind of stress every time he hits the screen. He goes – that’s my final word.’

‘With respect,’ Frank replied with measured calm. ‘This is
my
production company, and
I
decide who goes and who stays on
my
shows.’

‘And
I
decide which programmes to commission for
my
station,’ Corbin reminded him firmly. Exhaling wearily then, he said, ‘I don’t want to fall out with you over this, Frank, but if you can’t see what a liability Logan is you’re not the man you used to be.’

Frank knew that Corbin was right. Logan
was
a liability. But the public didn’t know that, and if Frank had his way they never would.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Corbin said perceptively now. ‘He draws the viewers, so we should give him leeway. But the Kiddie Kare Telethon is
sacred
, and I paid too much for the broadcasting rights to let one man – who, incidentally, I don’t even
like
– jeopardise its future. And you’re very much mistaken if you think the public won’t hold this against him. Jokers, they accept; piss-heads who make
sick
jokes, they do not.’ Standing up now, he shrugged. ‘Take my advice, get shot of the dead wood and bring in someone reliable like Dennis or Monkhouse before it’s too late.’

‘Monkhouse is dead,’ Frank reminded him, his flat tone disguising the anger simmering beneath the surface.

‘So he is,’ Corbin conceded. ‘Oh, well . . . Dennis, then. Or how about Richie? He’s a good-looking lad with a bit of spark about him. And the viewers adore him.’ Nodding now, pleased with his vision, he said, ‘Get Shane to front it, and we’ll talk about keeping
Star Struck
in the schedule.’

‘That’s blackmail.’

‘Call it what you like, but I don’t want to see Logan’s face in my station again –
ever
.’

‘Bastard!’ Frank snarled when the door swung shut behind Corbin. ‘Who the hell does he think he is, telling me how to run
my
show? His station was on its bloody arse when I gave him
Star Struck
!’

‘You’ve got to admit he’s got a point,’ Jeremy said. ‘You don’t realise how bad things actually are, because we’ve always smoothed everything out by the time the show airs, but it’s murder trying to get a good take out of Larry these days.’ Shrugging now, he added, ‘Might be worth thinking about a replacement – even if it’s only temporary; until he’s been through rehab, or something.’

‘Bollocks!’ Frank shot back dismissively. ‘Logan doesn’t need rehab, he just needs a damn good kick up the arse.’

‘If you say so,’ Jeremy said, casually easing up the volume on the monitor so that Frank could hear how good a job Matty Kline was doing as a stand-in for his golden boy right now. ‘The audience really likes him, don’t they?’ he commented as the sound of cheering filled the suite.

‘They liked the flaming singing
gerbils
!’ Frank reminded him caustically. Then, shaking his head, he muttered, ‘All you had to do was keep him in line, but if you’re not up to it just say the word, ’cos there’s plenty more directors where you came from.’

Biting down on the angry reply that sprang to his lips, Jeremy folded his arms. There was no point arguing with Frank when he was in this kind of mood; he would just dig his heels in deeper and lash out at whoever was closest.

Pushing his chair back with a scrape now, Frank stood up and headed for the door, barking back over his shoulder, ‘Find Larry and tell him I want him in my office in five minutes. And, while you’re at it, sack Gordon!’

2

Katy Lowndes was in bed, but she wasn’t sleeping; she was grinding her teeth, fuming about the telethon, which she could hear coming to an end on the TV in the lounge below.

She’d enjoyed the first few hours, crying with laughter when the singing gerbils chased Matty Kline around the stage, and mooning over Westlife. But then
Star Struck
had come on, and her night had been ruined when she saw that Tania slaggyarse boyfriend-stealer Baxter was one of the contestants. Not only because Tania was too young to take part, but also because she’d won the money under false pretences, pretending to be her older sister, Cindy.

It had actually taken Katy a little while to realise that it was Tania and not Cindy, because she hadn’t seen Tania since leaving school a few months earlier and her hair had still been long and blonde then. But now, with it cut and coloured black like Cindy’s, with her make-up done the same way and wearing the same kind of tarty dress, Tania looked so much like her nineteen-year-old sister that it was spooky. But she’d made one mistake, and that was how Katy had sussed it.

The tits.

Cindy had had a boob job, and not a subtle one but a full-on Jordan-stylie; whereas Tania’s breasts were as small as ever. And as soon as Katy clicked on to
that
, she’d spotted all the other things which had confirmed it for her. Like the scar over Tania’s right eyebrow from the time she’d tried to look cool by getting it pierced only for it to go septic; and the stupid way she stood with her hand on her hip and one leg stuck out, like she was on a corner looking for passing trade; and that annoying laugh of hers: head thrown back, gob wide open like she was waiting for a dick to fill it.

It had been Tania all right, and Katy had watched the rest of the show with her arms tightly folded and her lips pursed, just
praying
for someone to rumble the bitch. And when the screen blacked out for a few minutes, she’d been so sure it must be happening right then that she’d been on the edge of her seat biting her nails with anticipation. But then the show had come back on with Matty Kline standing in for Larry Logan, and Katy had flipped when Tania went on to win the money.

Storming up to her bedroom to sulk in private, she couldn’t settle down for the rage and envy that was eating her up at the thought of Tania cosying up to Larry Logan and flirting with Matty Kline – like she stood a cat in hell’s chance with either of them, the ugly, lying slag! And now she was ten grand richer, while Katy had nothing but her job-seeker’s to get by on, and she’d be lording it up all over town; probably buy herself a flashy car to drive on
Cindy
’s licence, and splash out on loads of tarty new clothes to flaunt herself in. And, seeing as she obviously wanted to
be
Cindy, she’d probably get a matching boob job as well, and strut round Stretford like some kind of superstar, with all the lads falling over themselves to get with her just because she’d been on telly. And there wasn’t a damn thing Katy could do about it.

Or was there . . . ?

Sitting bolt upright, Katy bit her lip. There
was
something she could do. She could ring the papers and tell them what was going on. They’d have to check it out, and then everyone would know the truth, and Tania would be the laughing stock of England – just like she’d made Katy the laughing stock of school when she’d nicked her boyfriend from under her nose and told everyone that he’d said Katy was a crap shag.

Fuelled by thoughts of sweet revenge, Katy jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to use the phone.

Across town, in the converted attic of the shabby three-storey house in Chorlton that he shared with two fellow journalists and a photographer, Sam Brady was tapping away at his laptop, writing a scathing piece on Larry Logan’s shameful performance, while keeping half an eye on the telethon’s digital donation display board, the numbers on which were constantly changing as the money continued to pour in. The telethon itself was reaching its end – at long fucking last! – and Sam had muted the volume, sick to death of Matty Kline’s incessant gabbing and cackling, which seemed to have stepped up several hundred notches after his stint on
Star Struck
earlier.

Like most of the journalists he knew, Sam despised this happy-clappy bung-us-all-your-cash type of show. And it wasn’t just the blatant attempt by the Z-list celebrities who clamoured to take part to keep themselves in the public eye that pissed him off, but that these shows were even
necessary
in this day and age. Kids still suffering poverty and neglect, while the government wasted the country’s cash on bombs and ammunition for other people’s wars. He’d have loved to sink his teeth into a down-and-dirty exposé of
that
kind of injustice, but it was a rare reporter who got away with fucking with political issues without finding every door suddenly slammed in his face. So Sam chose to aim his poisoned pen-nib into the heart of showbiz instead, taking great pleasure from biting the arses of overpaid celebrities – like Larry Logan.