Mary Baker - The Honey Trap

‘Anyway, they were both of them brought up in the public eye,’ Leo continued, warming to his subject. ‘They know how the game’s played, the extra caution you have to take when you’re a celebrity. You’d almost think from his willingness to give it up he wanted to get caught – or at least that he didn’t care if he was.’

‘That doesn’t change the fact I set him up and then humiliated his wife by spending the night with him when I was never supposed to take it that far. You can’t tell me you think that’s okay because we both know it bloody well isn’t, and if I wasn’t your best mate you’d admit it in a heartbeat. Anyway, it’s not a ‘game’ I ever want to play again, Leo, not with people’s lives…’

But Leo shushed her as the lights dimmed and the curtain came up. ‘We’ll talk more after, okay?’ He gave her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. Between him and Emily, she felt like ‘reassuring squeeze’ was likely to be listed on an autopsy certificate under ‘Angel Blackthorne: Cause of Death’ any day now.

As the opening credits started scrolling across the screen, Angel fished the notebook and pen from her handbag and began scribbling away in shorthand, listing the names of the principal actors, the setting for the opening scene, some brief notes on the performances. But half an hour later the same pen hovered motionless over the page as she stared, open-mouthed, at the screen.

Steve, Savannah, everyone had been right. Wilchester was brilliant. Perhaps even a genius. The writing, the direction, the casting: it was all spot on.

The plot was original and yet somehow quintessentially British: a bored, ditzy 1970s housewife, Beaumont, seduces the local milkman and then convinces him to carry out a hit on her philandering businessman husband. Seb’s script was the perfect combination of farce and thriller, with the audience laughing, gasping, and on one occasion, screaming on cue in all the right places. Angel couldn’t tear her fascinated eyes away, watching the plot twist and turn with dizzying speed, keeping her guessing until the very end.

And Carole Beaumont! Who could have predicted the icy, regal blonde would have such perfect comic timing, delivering one sparkling line after another, or such a talent for physical comedy? She might have the looks of a Grace Kelly but her performance reminded Angel of Lucille Ball in her prime.

As the end credits rolled Angel heard a round of applause start to ripple through the press area, becoming a standing ovation as those around her rose to their feet. Angel and Leo joined them, clapping wildly with the rest.

‘Does that happen a lot?’ she whispered to Leo, sinking into her seat again.

Leo shook his head. ‘First time I’ve seen it. First time it’s ever been earned. He’s a talented bastard, I’ll say that for him. I was doubtful when he announced the next Tigerblaze film would be a comedy, but it seems like everything that pair touches turns to gold.’

Angel nodded her enthusiastic agreement. ‘God, it was unbelievable. Like Ealing in its glory days, but with a dark modern edge that really gave it bite. If Carole Beaumont hasn’t got a best-actress BAFTA heading her way next year I’ll be amazed.’

‘You were certainly paying attention.’ Leo looked impressed by her insight. ‘Sounds like you’ve got a great starting point for your review, anyway. A fresh perspective too, which I guess is a rare thing in critic circles. You’ve not seen any of their other work, have you? I forgot you were a Wilchester virgin –’

Leo grimaced. ‘Oh God. Forget I said that, will you? I can’t believe I just said that.’

‘Let’s just pretend I didn’t hear you,’ Angel said, flinching in her turn.

But it was too late: she’d seen his mouth start to curve. Before she could help herself it had affected her too and she was lolling back in her seat, giggling uncontrollably along with Leo. Other journalists squeezed past them, shooting odd-but-I’ve-seen-it-all looks in their direction.

Angel snorted helplessly into Leo’s shoulder for a solid two minutes until the tears stung. ‘Come on,’ she said at last, wiping the corners of her eyes and catching her breath. ‘Let’s get out of here to somewhere I can sort out my mascara. I must look like a reject from an eighties pop video.’ People were pouring down the aisles out of the cinema now and they were the last two left in their seats.

She gazed through the open doors of the fire exit to the freedom of the brightly lit square. ‘I don’t suppose we could just go home, could we?’ She angled a pair of hopeful, pleading eyes up to Leo. ‘I’ll buy you a Domino’s on the way? It’s emotionally draining, this film-reviewing lark.’

‘Wish we could, Ginge. A slice of stuffed-crust double cheese and I’m anyone’s under normal circumstances, as you well know. But Steve’ll have my goolies for garters if we don’t turn in some photos and a report on this after-party. When it comes to selling papers, that’s the most important part of the night. It’s where all the dirt is anyway, which you must have worked out by now is all the boss cares about.’

He grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the exit. ‘Look, we don’t have to stay long if you’ve had enough. It’s a great opportunity for you to get a really class piece into your portfolio. Come on, I’ll call a cab to take us over to the club.’

***

The lavish Luxe nightclub announced its status as the official after-party venue for The Milkman Cometh with a large plasma screen mounted over the door showing clips and trailers for the film. The building’s black mirror façade was illuminated with electric-blue strip lighting. Another plush red carpet, bordered by plaited ropes suspended between highly polished brass stands, guided guests up to the entrance. It looked like exactly the last place Angel would ever choose to be if her time was her own.

‘Shouldn’t you be crouching somewhere, taking leggy shots of celebrities as they get out of limos?’ she asked Leo.

‘Yeah, I actually should.’ He pulled a face. ‘Hey Ginge, do you think we can ever leave this gutter-press lifestyle behind us and go work somewhere really classy, like Big Jugs Monthly ?’

‘We can dream.’

Leo screwed the lens on his camera and prepared to dash off. ‘Go on, you get inside. I’ll meet you at the bar.’

It didn’t take long for Angel to discover film premiere after-parties were everything she hated about nightclubs, with an extra coating of awful. Or rather, it took ages to discover that. She had to queue for twenty minutes to get through the security checks, watching her bag turned inside out and the assorted debris that made up the contents scrutinised by three different security officers, plus another ten minutes for them to ring head office when they discovered it was Sarah, the Investigator ’s heavily pregnant showbiz editor, and not Angel whose name was on the guest list.

When they were finally satisfied she wasn’t a terrorist with a vendetta against the British film industry and let her through, she’d spent another fifteen minutes in a cloakroom queue so she could see her favourite jacket thrown into a pile with a raffle ticket pinned precariously to the collar. By the time she made it to the black gloss bar, trying to do a bit of subtle spying into the roped-off VIP area where she knew Seb and Carole would be seated on the way past, Leo was already there with a pint of something amber and a white wine served in a miniature milk bottle. Nice touch…