Mary Baker - The Honey Trap

‘Brace yourself, Ginge. We’re going in.’ Gripping his press pass between his teeth, Leo grabbed Angel by the shoulders and started fighting his way through the crowd. She held up her skirt to keep it safe from the crush of bodies as conga-like they barged their way through. ‘Excuse me, coming through, Investigator , coming through…’

Eventually Leo managed to manoeuvre Angel into a vantage point not far behind the mesh fencing forming the cordon. He slid himself in beside her to a spot where he could join the flash-bulb ocean. It was this winning combination of great pictures and sharp elbows that meant Leo had been Steve’s photographer of choice at film premieres for over a year now.

‘It’ll be over faster than you think,’ he shouted to Angel through the noise of the crowd. ‘Better get yourself ready.’

Angel rummaged in her handbag for her notebook and waited, pen poised, for the guests to arrive. She had a pretty clear view of the carpet between the shoulders of the two photographers jostling each other in front of her. Thank God she was in heels: the inch or so they added to her usual five-six were just what she needed to guarantee her a good view, or at least the best she was going to get in this mob.

First on the carpet was a perma-tanned face Angel recognised as belonging to some reality TV rent-a-celeb, who simpered and pouted gamely for the photographers. The young woman had poured herself into a skin-tight, salmon-pink strapless dress, her surgically enhanced bowling-ball breasts bursting from the low-cut V that extended down almost to her crotch. ‘Christian Dior, naturally,’ she purred, twirling for the gathered press.

Angel jotted down the Z-lister’s name and a description of her outfit as per her brief from Steve, wondering if there was honestly anyone who wanted to read about this stuff.

Next came the lead actor in The Milkman Cometh , a big name known for his portrayal of Regency fops in period dramas. This role was his first foray into comedy and he looked suitably nervous as he faced the wolfpack, which had the power to make or break him with a word.

The thrilled-looking older lady on his arm was introduced as his mum, beaming while she posed alongside her son. ‘My biggest fan,’ he said. The crowd ‘ahhhhed’ appreciatively.

Angel scribbled away as a succession of stylish celebrities, from chefs to soap-opera stars, made their way up the carpet, those used to the limelight striding forward with unflappable confidence, others shy and diffident in the face of the blaze of cameras.

An expectant hum went through the pack and she heard Carole Beaumont’s name spoken in hushed tones by the people around her. Craning her neck to get a better view over the pony-tailed photographer in front, Angel saw the film’s elegant, dainty little star stepping from a chauffeur-driven limo at the other end of the carpet. A shiver slammed through her, despite the heat from the press of bodies on every side. Would Seb be with his wife? Or had he sneaked in through the back entrance? Leo said he almost always did at premieres, to avoid the gaggle of press.

Unsure whether the vibrations shooting up her spine came from fear or excitement, or perhaps a touch of both, Angel bent her strappy shoes into a tiptoe position to get a better view. She wasn’t worried now about being seen. The flashes from the wilderness of cameras were as good as a smokescreen.

Her stomach did a double somersault when she saw Seb follow his wife out of the limo, his tall, athletic frame breathtaking in a classic but immaculately cut dinner jacket and black tie. The wild, curly hair Angel remembered so well running her fingers through was gelled smartly back. He gave the crowd a half-smile, but she could tell he was bored.

She hadn’t realised how deeply it would affect her to see him in person again after the two months that had passed since that night at the hotel. Still on tiptoes, she almost reeled backwards into another reporter. She clutched at Leo’s arm for support while she struggled to regain her footing, knocking the hand he was using to operate the flash as she did so. He shook her away with an impatient gesture.

Really, Angel, knocked off your feet? Eurghh. You are such a bloody cliché.

The glamorous couple swept hand in hand along the red carpet and Angel wondered with a wave of cynicism if their in-your-face togetherness was genuine or a stage-managed show of affection for the benefit of the gathered pack. She assumed the sharp-suited man waiting for them with arms folded at the end of the walkway was, as everything in his appearance seemed to suggest, some sort of public-relations advisor.

Seb kissed his wife on the cheek and took a step back as they neared the top of the carpet, letting Carole take centre stage. The slight scowl on his handsome face told Angel these kind of events were a duty rather than a pleasure, and only pressure from the stern PR man had convinced him not to slink in round the back as usual.

Carole more than made up for his standoffishness, however. She smiled and waved for the press, kissed adoring fans across the barrier and signed autographs until she held the crowd in the palm of her hand. She was every inch the consummate professional, the former child star who had been wowing fans almost from the cradle.

She was wearing a simple but dazzling backless dress in cream chiffon, ending in a floor-sweeping transparent train with a hemline rising in front to skim her knees. An embroidered peacock motif picked out in sparkling aquamarine beads curled down one side of the bodice. Angel felt a twinge of something – jealousy? – as she noted the shapely legs, remembering Steve’s description of Seb as a ‘leg man’ and the way the director had seemed to approve so much of hers that night in the hotel bar. For some reason she found herself blinking back tears, recalling him scanning the curve of her crossed legs when he’d stood up to hand back her bag, and the heat that had slammed through her when she’d felt his soft curls brushing against her calves…

Carole’s platinum-blonde bob was flawless as always, the fair skin was set off perfectly by delicate pencilled lashes and a slick of baby-pink lipstick, yet there was a childlike air of fragility to the diminutive actress that couldn’t help but make an onlooker feel protective. Angel noticed the bruised circles indicating sleepless nights around her eyes, almost but not quite hidden by the make-up artist’s skill. But Carole didn’t let her tiredness show while she laughed and chatted with the assembled crowd.

‘Who am I wearing?’ she said in answer to a reporter. ‘Why, myself, darling, of course. I make nearly all my own dresses.’

Well, of course you do. It seemed Carole Beaumont really was practically perfect in every way.

‘But I do wonder why that’s always the first question I’m asked,’ the actress went on. ‘Usually followed by a request for details of my beauty routine, while my co-star is asked about his role in the movie.’

Carole spoke lightly, with a little tinkling laugh, but her smile had a hard edge, making it clear this particular question was an irritation she’d encountered before. And it was true, her leading man had been asked just moments earlier how he’d prepared for his part in the film by the very same reporter. Angel felt her respect rise for this woman, gracious but firm, who refused to let the press reduce her to a glorified clothes-horse.