Starstruck (40 page)

As
I step into Mr Boyes’ office I am immediately overwhelmed by the view from the
huge windows. It certainly puts my little office to shame. The second thing
that catches my attention is just how gorgeous Mr Boyes himself actually is.
He’s probably in his late forties, but very fanciable for someone double my
age. I don’t entertain the thought for more than ten seconds though, because
this is the bastard who has been making my life miserable.

‘Miss
Wilde,’ he shakes my hand. ‘And Frank, long time no see. Take a seat please.’

I
sit down. I probably shouldn’t feel this uncomfortable in what I’d imagine is a
really expensive chair. I can feel my hands getting sweaty as I clutch my
envelope of evidence even tighter, just in case he grabs it off me and throws
it out of the window or something.

‘What
can I do for you Miss Wilde?’ Mr Boyes asks with a huge grin on his face.

‘Mr
Boyes-’

‘Johnny.
Call me Johnny,’ he insists. Whatever.

‘Johnny.
You’ve been running quite a few stories about me, some of which I know you have
entirely made up.’ I can’t resist slipping that in. There might have been a few
incriminating looking photos, but an awful lot of what they printed was pure
fiction.

‘Now
now, Miss Wilde. We’re very careful about what we print. If we printed lies it
wouldn’t be the news, would it? We are a newspaper after all.’ If it’s even
possible, his smile grows even bigger.

I
look at Frank for help, who gives me the nod to go ahead.

‘Let’s
start at the top,’ I say calmly, fidgeting with my envelope to try and find the
USB stick. ‘Nothing happened between Dylan and me.’

‘Well
I have it on pretty good authority that it did,’ he says, still smiling, but in
a way that seems far less friendly.

‘Erm,
I have it on pretty good authority that it didn’t, what with me being there and
all.’

‘I’m
a very busy man,’ Johnny stands up. ‘So if you’re only here to waste my time-’

‘I
have a video that proves nothing happened,’ I cut him off. ‘Your photographer,
Vicky Mason, has been trying to sabotage me for weeks, and whatever line she
spun you with that photo she sold to you - it’s bullshit.’

For
the first time since we entered the room, Johnny Boyes isn’t smiling or
talking.

‘And
you’re willing to show me this video?’ he eventually asks.

‘Yes.
Can I use your computer?’ I waggle my USB stick at him. I made sure that I
backed the video up on my laptop before we left – just in case.

‘Go
ahead.’

‘You’ll
find the correct date and time in the file info,’ Frank tells him while I’m
loading up the video.

‘You
can’t fake these things you know,’ Johnny warns us. As if we’d try and pull a
fast one and land ourselves in even bigger shit.

‘Well
you’re welcome to run the relevant tests, whatever you need to do to be
confident it’s legit,’ Frank assures him.

‘Here
we go.’ I hit play on the video. ‘Feel free to skip through it,’ I tell Johnny,
and then take a step back.

Johnny
remains silent as he watches. I glance at Frank nervously, and he gives me a
confident wink.

‘Take
a seat, Nicole,’ Johnny orders. ‘Right, what’s the deal?’

‘Right.’
Frank snaps into action, rubbing his hands. ‘No one will see the video. It
won’t be going on the website, and screen grabs won’t be going in the paper.
You have seen it, that’s all you need to run a story on it.’

‘Right.
Ok.’ Johnny sound almost defeated. ‘I’ll have the video checked and show it to
our reporters-’

‘One
of your reporters,’ Frank corrects him.

‘One
of our reporters,’ Johnny says back to him. ‘We’ll do that while you’re here,
you can take the video back with you. I’ll have the story written up and I’ll
email you a draft to approve, Frank.’

‘I
want to write it myself,’ I say, interrupting the grown-ups talking.

‘You
do?’ Frank asks me.

‘I
do. I’ve had enough of other people writing about me, I want to do this one
myself. I
am
a writer you know.’

Johnny
thinks about it for a moment. ‘Ok, you can write it. I’ll set you up on a desk
downstairs, you can do it while you’re here.’

‘Then
we have a deal,’ Frank claps his hands. ‘And we’ll reconsider taking legal
action, perhaps it won’t be necessary now.’

‘I’m
sure there’s no need for that.’ Johnny starts grinning again.

‘Karen,’
he says to his phone and iPad lady enters the room seconds later.

‘Can
you take Miss Wilde to Jasper, tell him to set her up on a computer, she’ll be
writing a story for us.’

The
news room reminds me of the local paper where I did my work experience – only
on a huge scale, and with less people getting excited about vandalised bus
shelters. I’ll say one thing for local news though, as boring as it is, at
least it’s honest.

Karen
shows me into a side office and introduces me to Jasper, who looks exactly like
a journalist is supposed to look. Only one name springs to mind – Clark Kent.
Thick dark hair, a strong manly jaw and even the thick-rimmed, black-framed
glasses - check, check, check. He’s wearing a suit and tie, slightly loosened,
and I find myself unsubtly peeping down his shirt to check for signs of blue
spandex.

The
pair leave me in the private office and stand just outside the door in the busy
news room. I can see them talking about me through the big glass window, but I
can’t hear what they’re saying. Karen is obviously explaining the situation and
I see Jasper raise his eyebrows in response to something.

‘Yes,
I’m familiar with Miss Wilde,’ he says, loud enough for me to hear as he walks
back into the room. Karen gives him a knowing nod and wanders off.

‘Right
then,’ Jasper runs a hand through his Clark Kent hair. ‘Let’s get you set up so
you can tell your story.’

Standing
behind my chair, he leans over the desk with one arm on either side of me,
trapping me in place.

‘So
you click here to get started,’ he starts explaining the software to me. We
just use Microsoft Word for writing at Starstruck, but they have some fancy
program here. I’m trying to pay attention, but with Jasper standing awkwardly
close to me it’s kind of distracting. It’s impossible not to notice how amazing
his aftershave smells. I take a subtle but sharp sniff, wondering what it is
that he is wearing.

‘Bleu
de Chanel,’ he tells me.

‘Excuse
me?’ I ask. Can he read my mind?
Is
he Superman?

‘My
aftershave, it’s Bleu de Chanel. You sniffed me.’ He laughs.

‘I
didn’t sniff you.’ I try to laugh it off. Not quite as subtle as you think, are
you, Nicole?

‘So,
what do you do here?’ I ask, changing the subject from me sniffing him.

‘Showbiz.’
I turn to face him, an accusing look on my face. ‘And no, I didn’t write any of
the stories about you.’

I
pull a face. I’ll be checking that for myself later.

‘You
don’t look the showbiz type,’ I tell him.

‘Right,
this is where you type the body of your article, when you’re done I’ll help you
format it,’ he says, back on topic.

‘My
Boyes says he wants it ready to go today – can you believe
he’s
bossing
me
around?’

‘Boyes
will be Boyes,’ he quips.

‘Are
you sure you didn’t have a hand in the articles about me?’ I tease after
hearing that brilliant pun.

‘Maybe
just the headlines. So, if I don’t look the showbiz type, what do I look like?’
he asks, his face inches from mine and his arms still either side of me.

‘I
dunno, serious stuff. I had you down as a bit of a Clark Kent,’ I confess.
‘Exposing bad guys, corrupt politicians, that sort of thing.’

‘You
think I’m Superman.’ His smile beams.

‘What
happens if I take those glasses off?’ I ask, tilting my head and twirling a
piece of my hair in my fingers. A sniff of Chanel, and I’m anyone’s.

‘If
you take these glasses off,’ he pauses for effect. ‘I won’t be able to see.’

I
laugh briefly, and we stare at each other for a few seconds. I am snapped out
of the trance this blatant superhero has me in by a tap on the glass. The desk
on the other side of the glass I am sitting next to belongs to none other than
Vicky Mason, and there she is, sandwich in hand, waving at me with a smug look
on her face. She obviously doesn’t know why I am here - yet. I don’t think
Johnny Boyes is going to let her bad behaviour slide, in fact, I think they’re
going to make her the fall girl.

I
escape Jaspers clutches and put my face to the glass, breathing hard to steam
it up. Before it can clear again, I use my finger to write “fuck you” on the
glass – backwards, obviously, so that Vicky can read it. She doesn’t even have
time to react before Mr Boyes and a security guard are at her desk, and yet again
I cannot hear what is being said, but I imagine it’s a polite version of what I
just wrote on the glass. Vicky gives me evil eyes as she collects her personal
possessions from her desk, before being ushered towards the exit.

‘Aww,
what a shame,’ I say to Jasper, not an ounce of sincerity in my voice.

‘Remind
me not to mess with you,’ Jasper says, sounding almost impressed. He gets
straight back to showing me how to use the computer – possibly because he’s too
scared to flirt with me now – and before I know it, he’s back at his desk and
I’m writing my story. It’s a weird feeling, writing about myself. I’ll start
small, and try to think of an appropriate headline.

‘Nicole’s
not so Wilde,’ I say to myself quietly. I giggle, safe in the knowledge my
headline will be a hit with these guys. With the article itself, it’s hard to
know where to begin. I don’t want to sound smug, but at the same time I want to
yell an extra loud “I told you so” at all the people who didn’t believe me.

I
start typing, and hope that the words will find their way to my fingers.

“My
name is Nicole Wilde,” I type, “And this is
my
story.”

Not
even my hangover can get me down this morning. I’ve only been awake for a few
minutes, but there’s that familiar headache, trying to bang its way out of my skull.

Last
night was crazy – but in the best possible way. I finished up my story at the
Scoop and had Jasper check it over for me. He was impressed. Not only did Mr
Boyes agree to print it the following day (today!) if I could have it ready but
he also said it was going on the front page. By the time I left the office it
was me who was feeling bad, Boyes couldn’t apologise enough for what had
happened. Frank wants to sue them, but I could see the pound signs in his eyes as
he suggested this. As far as I’m concerned, Boyes and his team have made amends
for everything they did by simply letting me tell the truth.

The
best part of the day was afterwards, when we all went out to celebrate. I
invited hot Jasper (yes, I have developed a bit of a crush on him even though
he isn’t in a band - turns out I like superheroes as well as rockstars) to party
with us. He went to speak to his boss and came back to reveal he had got us
into one of the hottest clubs in London, and that the Daily Scoop would be
paying for all of our drinks. Do you see what I mean about them making amends?
Consider me truly placated. Frank didn’t want to celebrate with us “young ‘uns”
as he so wonderfully put it in his fantastic accent, but I invited the Two For
The Road boys, as well as my new best friend Kelly Parker. I must have consumed
a lot of alcohol because my memory fails me – but that’s the sign of a good
night, isn’t it? At least I am in my own bed, and alone.

Glancing
at my phone I realise it is 1pm, and that I have lots of messages and missed
calls. I didn’t even wake up early to buy a copy of the newspaper with my story
on the front page. We got in so late last night, I probably could have picked
up a copy on my way home if I had been thinking straight, although I doubt I
was even walking straight.

It’s
a battle, but I pull myself upright and eventually climb out of bed, throwing
on my dressing gown for now. A quick glance in the mirror confirms my worst
fears, I look terrible. My circa ’86 Bon Jovi hair has made a comeback, and I
clearly didn’t waste any time taking my make-up off before bed because I have
black smudges all over my face.

 As
I walk towards the door I can’t help but laugh at how much things have changed.
Just a few short months ago there’s no way I’d let Luke see me looking like
this, but look at me now, strolling around in my dressing gown in front of him,
looking like Alice Cooper and smelling like a sweaty brewery worker.

‘Morning!’
I say brightly, surprised to see him out of bed before me. ‘You’re up first -
again - I’m in shock.’

From
behind the breakfast counter he brings out a huge bunch of roses and hands them
to me.