She’d turned down the invitation to the event as soon as it had arrived but Bill had overruled her for once. He’d called her into his office in Bloomsbury, which was also unusual as he normally came to her. As her agent, he did work for her, after all. It wasn’t her job to go to him. And she was twenty-six now, not sixteen, as she had been when she had signed with him. She did not take well to being told off like a sulky child.
Thinking back, Lizzie remembered how distracted and irritable Bill had been that morning, even more than normal. She had hoped it was just his ulcer playing up but suspected that it was because of her. She knew Bill wanted her to change direction and move away from the kids’ presenting into something more grown up; he’d suggested a game show that was currently looking for a new host and she’d turned it down on the grounds that it would kill her brain cells faster than sniffing paint. Then he put forward a new show called Celebrity Wrestling: The Hot Moves. She’d told him it sounded like porn. Bill had slammed the flat of his hand down on his desk in exasperation.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ he had shouted.
Lizzie hadn’t jumped at the crack of Bill’s hand on the wood. Her father had been given to sudden violent storms of temper and she was inured to it.
‘Do you need a cup of tea, Bill?’ she asked. ‘It might help you calm down.’
‘I need a client I can work with,’ Bill snapped. ‘It’s time to grow up, Lizzie. You’re too wholesome. It’s infantilising. What are you now – twenty-seven?’
‘I was twenty-six last month,’ Lizzie said coldly. Bill’s secretary had sent flowers from him, a whole hothouse full of them. She’d known Bill had had nothing to do with it.
‘Then act like it,’ Bill said sharply. ‘No more of this bubble gum pop and kids’ shows. And get yourself a partner. I don’t care what sex they are. This “best friends for ever” thing you have going on with Dudley Lester may have been cute when you were fifteen but it’s cloying now.’
Lizzie had known it wouldn’t be long before her relationship with Dudley would be thrown at her. Dudley was her oldest friend – her rock – and she loved him as much as Bill hated him for the influence he had over her.
‘You’re well aware that I haven’t written or performed any music for over a year,’ she said, ignoring Bill’s comments about Dudley to focus on her other grudge against him. ‘You told me to stop and I did even though I loved it! I’ve been offered nothing but crappy kids’ gigs ever since.’
‘Because you’re such a princess,’ Bill said. ‘People still think of you as a teenager. Your reputation—’
‘Is squeaky clean,’ Lizzie said. ‘And it stays that way. I’m not going to shag someone – of any sex – just to please you.’
There was a long, dangerous silence. Lizzie could feel the tears stinging the backs of her eyes and blinked them away. She’d worked so damned hard for everything she had, distanced herself from the sleaze and scandal of her childhood, and she wasn’t going to let Bill put any of that in jeopardy.
She saw his shoulders slump. ‘You’re not just going to walk into Newsnight from the Ninja Teatime Club,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to put the graft in first.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘Starting with the Oxford Symposium. I know you’ve refused the invite but if you want people to buy your books then you need to get out there and meet the readers.’
‘They’re kids’ books,’ Lizzie said. ‘I thought you said I should aim for a more mature audience.’
‘Writing adds gravitas,’ Bill said. ‘Loads of celebs write books for children.’
‘But it’s Oxford,’ Lizzie objected. ‘They’ll hate me. Everyone despises celebrity authors, especially the ones who don’t even write their own books. We’re the lowest of the low, taking huge advances we don’t need and cheating ordinary writers out of a living.’
‘You’ve been reading The Bookseller magazine again,’ Bill said irritably. ‘I told you not to do that.’
‘You gave it to me so I could see how well my latest book was doing,’ Lizzie said. ‘Number one in the e-book charts for three weeks so far and in the top ten paperbacks—’
‘Exactly.’ Bill cut her off with a snap of his fingers. ‘So get over to Oxford and keep it at number one.’
‘What do you think, Kat?’ Lizzie said. She’d brought Kat Ashley with her even though Bill hadn’t invited her, even though he barely tolerated her as a fixture in Lizzie’s life. Nominally Kat was Lizzie’s PA but she wasn’t exactly efficient. Lizzie really needed a secretary to organise Kat but she was fiercely loyal to her because their relationship had nothing to do with work, not really. Kat was her godmother and had looked after Lizzie when her mother had died. She’d been in her life ever since, the only constant other than Dudley and someone Lizzie clung to tenaciously because deep down she saw Kat as the last real connection to her mother.
‘Don’t ask Kat!’ Bill exploded. ‘She’ll only tell you what you want to hear.’
Kat glared at him.
‘She’s my friend,’ Lizzie said. ‘Of course she’s on my side.’
‘I’m on your side,’ Bill said bitterly, ‘if only you could see it.’
‘You should do it, honey,’ Kat said, surprising them both. ‘Bill’s right. You want the books to do well; your fans love them…’ She shrugged. ‘It’s business, babes.’
So here Lizzie was in Oxford on a wet September evening, about to be interviewed by some local journalist who probably couldn’t believe his luck in getting to meet Lizzie Kingdom, one-time girl band member turned kids’ TV presenter and now non-author of the Celia Jones and Friends books for pre-teen girls.
Her phone buzzed. She waved a hand at Kat, who was sitting on a hard wooden chair painting her nails turquoise, engrossed. Her tongue stuck out of the side of her mouth with the effort of concentration.
‘Get that for me, would you, Kat?’
Kat looked pained but she stretched out her unvarnished hand for the phone without reproach. Lizzie felt a flash of guilt. She was behaving like a brat and had been doing so all day. It was the nerves. Nothing should make her nervous after all these years; she had been a child star at five and an adult one at twelve. Her father, a theatre impresario, had seen her potential as a performer when she was in nappies and had promptly signed her up to do baby commercials. After her mother had died, he had forever been taking her out of school for parts in various shows. It had all progressed from there. Tonight, though, was about literature, a subject on which she knew next to nothing. She didn’t feel comfortable and she hated that sense of vulnerability.
‘It’s Dudley,’ Kat said, checking the caller ID. Her voice was expressionless in the way that could only imply disapproval. Kat was another one who heartily disliked Dudley Lester. Kat said that Dudley used Lizzie, that he lived off her success because he had never quite achieved the same level of fame himself and now that he had financial troubles he was even more of a leech. Lizzie knew there was a grain of truth in this. When Dudley’s band had split four years before, he had wanted to move into presenting and Lizzie had helped, putting some work his way, suggesting joint projects. She didn’t see the problem; that was what friends did for one another and Dudley had always been there for her. She could tell him anything and everything, and frequently did. He was the only person she loved and trusted completely. She knew Dudley could be petulant sometimes but he made her laugh. She didn’t have many proper friends, people who understood what it was like to have a spectacularly messed-up childhood lived out under very bright public lights. Dudley genuinely appreciated that and had stood by her through it all. That counted for a lot.