Стюарт Макбрайд - All That’s Dead

Everyone joined in for the last bit, even Tara: ‘The End!’

Logan closed the book, stood and kissed Jasmine on the head. ‘Night Monster Number One.’ Then did the same with Naomi. ‘Night Monster Number Two.’

She held up her grubby octopus. ‘Don’t forget Captain Bogies!’

‘OK.’ Captain Bogies got a kiss on his head too. ‘Night Monster Number Three.’

He stopped in the doorway — ducking a bit so he didn’t lose his tiara on the architrave — and clicked out the light, leaving them with the rotating glow of a wee planetarium globe thing. Well, that and the sunshine oozing in around the curtains.

Tara blocked his way out, so he kissed her as well. She tasted of cherries. ‘Monster Number Four.’ That seemed to do the trick, because she backed away far enough to let Logan close the door behind him.

She reached up and adjusted his tiara. ‘Very fetching.’ A lopsided smile. ‘You make a good dad, you know that, don’t you?’ Then closed one eye and chewed on the inside of one cheek for a bit. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all?’

Oh-ho.

‘Well, there’s nothing to stop us getting a bit of practice in.’ He wrapped her up in a hug, complete with very wandering hands. Getting a laughing shriek for his troubles as she grabbed hold of his bum for a revenge grope.

Jasmine’s voice barged through the closed bedroom door: ‘GOD SAKE, YOU TWO. GET A ROOM!’

Which wasn’t a bad idea...

Sylvia’s voice purred in his ear. ‘And the sell-in’s great, Scotty. We’re talking potential top ten bestseller here.’

Scott grinned. A top ten bestseller: how cool was that?

Wait a minute... ‘Sylvia, does that mean we have to give the guy who wrote it more money?’ He stuck the phone on ‘SPEAKER’ and dropped it into his top pocket, freeing both hands to tip the remainder of his pear and Roquefort tarte tatin into the food recycling bin — well, you never knew when something like The Great British Bake Off might come calling. And lesser mortals than him had parlayed that into a lucrative media career, so why shouldn’t he?

‘You let me worry about that. Your name’s on the cover, you get all the fame and ninety-nine percent of the cash.’

‘Less your fifteen percent.’

A laugh. ‘Hey, a girl’s gotta eat, right?’

The kitchen, let’s be honest here, was an absolute triumph — lots of chrome and brushed steel appliances. A dark-maroon statement wall for the range cooker to sit against. Mahoosive fridge with separate wine cooler. But then the whole house was a monument to his superior taste, thank you very much.

Shame no one had thought to get in touch with Grand Designs when he was having it built. Could’ve been great on that.

‘And have you thought any more about: you — know — what?’

‘Yeah...’ He sucked a breath in through his teeth. ‘I’m not sure Strictly is a good fit for me. What about the charity single idea? Or... presenting something on TV, you know? Something with a bit of gravitas?’ He pulled the bag out of the recycling bin and tied the top edges together.

‘Scotty, you can’t just coast into a cosy media career off the back of four weeks in the Big Brother house any more. It’s not 2002 and you’re not Jade Goody.’

Damn right he wasn’t. ‘How about Celebrity Mastermind ? I could—’

‘Are you insane ? No one in the history of ever got a career boost from Celebrity Cocking Mastermind , have you seen the Z-list nobodies they have on that show?’

He carried the bag out into the hall — big, atrium style, with an Italian marble floor, huge rubber plants and citrus trees and the like. All of which had cost a small fortune. As had everything else in here, including the state-of-the-art home cinema setup in the lounge.

‘Listen to me, Scotty: you want the TV show and the turn on Desert Island Discs ? You gotta do Strictly .’

Groan.

‘And while we’re at it, have you done that opinion piece for the Telegraph yet?’

‘I’m a bit... Look, Sylvia, are you sure this is the right direction for me? My dad’s SNP and he’s still not speaking to me after the last one I wrote.’ Scott walked through the porch. Smaller in scale — so you’d get the wow factor stepping out of it into the hall: see, he knew what he was doing when he briefed the architect — but still pretty damned grand as far as designs went.

‘Don’t be daft: “Why Scotland should be scared to go it alone” was terrific. Best thing in the whole paper.’

‘But—’

‘Scotty, darling, trust me. That “Tackling the Tartan Menace” shtick plays very well down here. London loves it. And where do you think all the casting decisions are made?’ She left an expectant pause, but there was no point answering the question, because they both knew it wasn’t Scotland.

‘OK, OK, I’ll write the piece.’ He checked his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror — not bad — unlocked the front door and stepped outside. ‘But if my dad disowns me, it’ll be your fault.’

A proper gravel driveway led down to the large wrought-iron gates, bordered by waist-high drystane dykes that cost an eye-wateringly large amount to put in.

The sun caressed the horizon, painting the sky with purple strokes, a smattering of clouds flaring fluorescent pink as the switch to twilight came... Hey, that was pretty good: ‘Painted the sky with purple strokes.’ Have to remember it for later, write it down when he got back inside.

Maybe he wouldn’t need someone to write the next book for him? Couldn’t be that difficult, could it? All you did was stuff one word down after the next till a book plopped out the other end. Any idiot could do that .

‘Now, about Strictly ...?’

The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he made for the gates, skirting the brand-new, dark-blue, BMW Z4. ‘Not convinced.’

She put on her patient voice. ‘Scotty, darling, let me explain Agent Sylvia’s patented Showbiz Hierarchy of Needs. I’d love to get you a presenting job, but to do that I need to get you on Strictly first. After that we go for a guest spot on Corrie , then EastEnders, Doctors, Casualty . How about Saturday Kitchen ? You like your food, right?’

‘Oooh, I could do that.’ He pulled the little remote from his trouser pocket and pressed the button. The gates swung open on silent hinges.

‘TV exposure is the oxygen our entertainment ecosystem thrives on. The more of it you breathe, the more of you they want.’

‘And what about Celebrity Pointless ?’

A thinking sound, then, ‘Liking it.’

He dumped the bag in the green recycling bin. Straightened up.

Frowned.

Was that...?

‘Hold on, Sylvia.’

A sound. Sort of scuffing, like someone trying to hide their footsteps?

He stood there, head cocked to the left, listening...

The sun was setting, but it’d be twilight for at least another hour yet. Longest day — wouldn’t be properly dark till after eleven. And yet... the shadows gathered. Deep blues and purples, reaching out from the drystane dykes, blurring the detail. Hiding things.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a fox yowled.

‘You still there?’

Nah. It was nothing. Badger or a vole. That kind of doodah.

He shut the recycling bin’s lid. ‘Then there’s radio work, right? Bound to be something we could pitch to Radio Four.’

‘Not as good as TV, but all exposure is good exposure when you’re Feeding The Beast.’