Val McDermid - The Vanishing Point

But they didn’t quite love her enough. In the final vote of the series, she lost out to Darrell O’Donohue, an amiable lump of beefcake from Belfast. I reckon he won because there was absolutely nothing to object to about Darrell. He was good-looking, kind and hard-working. He appeared to have no strong views on any subject. And he’d made a fine job of Shania Twain’s ‘Man! I Feel Like a Woman!’ in the karaoke challenge. Still, I’d have killed him within the hour if I’d been forced to spend an evening in his company. After the show was over, he had his five minutes of fame, then disappeared back to Northern Ireland, happy to be a C-list fish in a small pond.

Despite being the beaten finalist, it was Scarlett who went on to make the most of her success. I wanted to refresh my memory of her trajectory of fame, so I moved to Scarlett’s own Wikipedia entry. As I read, I remembered how ballsy she’d seemed. Shedding her past in the sink estates of south Leeds, she’d headed straight for the celebrity circuit. She hooked up with an agent and within days she’d become a staple of the red-tops and the slag mags that celebrated drunken women falling into limos or gutters at three in the morning. Slimmed down and burnished by stylists, Scarlett seemed to become almost beautiful and it wasn’t long before she’d landed a boyfriend with a foot on the celebrity ladder.

Scarlett hadn’t quite built up enough superstar Brownie points to snag a Premier League footballer, but she managed the next best thing. Reno Jacuba was a striker with a Champion ship side struggling in mid-table. He’d suffered from a couple of allegations of nasty sexual assaults, he shared the same agent as Scarlett and there was benefit to both of them in a link-up. So, linked they were – for a couple of magazine cycles. Once he was rehabilitated and her stock had risen a little, he ditched her. Or she ditched him, depending on which account you bought into.

Next up was a second division gangsta rapper whose principal claim to fame had been mooning on the MOBO red carpet. A few short months of nauseating lurve were followed by an acrimonious bust-up. Three nightclub fights ended on the front pages of the tabloids and he was history.

And then along came Joshu. A British Asian DJ, titan of the turntables, a strutting bantam of a boy who thought every word that dripped from his mouth was golden. King of the clubs, or so he thought. He never tired of publicly telling Scarlett she should be grateful to have him because he could have any woman he wanted. It was a claim he regularly put to the test. They rowed about it in nightclubs, in bars and in restaurants. They rowed about it on TV chat shows, in press interviews and in the street. The trouble was, it seemed the silly girl was in love with the idiot boy. She kept on coming back for more. Just reading about it made me want to shake some sense into her.

Having very public love affairs wasn’t the only thing that Scarlett was good at. A bright TV producer had understood that she had the gift of communicating with a particular demographic. The chattering classes might sneer, all the papers from the Daily Mail upwards might scoff, but when it came to reaching out to empty-headed young women with enough disposable income to be interesting to advertisers, Scarlett had an unerring instinct. It seemed she knew when to be raunchy, when to be vulnerable, when to be sexy and when to be bloody rude. And because she was pictured out on the lash at least twice a week, her audience really got that she was one of them.

Scarlett was living proof of the dream for those young women. She validated their shallow ambition. They saw her hitting the high life, in spite of her terrible childhood, her poor education, her limited looks, and it helped them believe it could happen to them. And that was what got them through the shitty days.

So they devoured her late-night satellite-channel show. The programme charted her life. Scarlett provided beauty tips, fashion guidance and a window on a world slathered in product placement. There was talk of a signature fragrance, a line of clothes in a downmarket high street chain, a monthly magazine column. Thank God that didn’t come off. I shuddered at the thought of the poor subeditor charged with rendering Scarlett’s simplistic yet totally fucked-up world view into a form that would please the readers and satisfy the lawyers.

Still, I had to admit she’d been doing really well for herself, had Scarlett. Well, by her lights, anyway. She was living in a hideous hacienda-style villa on the edge of Epping Forest that had been built originally for some minor East End gangster, according to Yes! magazine. It looked like the house that taste forgot, with its mish-mash of styles and its job-lot furnishings. She’d bought a house for her mum and her sister, but she’d had the good sense to keep them firmly offstage, up north in Leeds. Not much detail had escaped about Scarlett’s family. Which, in my experience, translated as ‘scum’. From my perspective, that was a good thing. It promised piquancy at the very least. Skeletons clattering out of closets like flamenco dancers on speed at best.

So, there was Scarlett, bumping along nicely, comfortably above the bottom of the barrel of fame. When it came to casting the second season of Goldfish Bowl , the producers hit on the bright idea of bringing back two of the participants from the first series. They dressed it up as giving the contestants more of a chance because they’d have a couple of team members who’d been through the experience before and would know how to milk a cow and skin a rabbit. I figured it was more of an insurance policy. Viewers loved them the first time so they’d be more likely to tune in for a second series.

And of course, Scarlett was the first port of call. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t been paying much attention at the time – I’d been in the final throes of my top Tory’s tale, trying to apply positive spin to some of his less attractive achievements. And there were plenty of those to work with.

It had all gone well to begin with, but soon the contestants realised that having previous contenders maybe wasn’t such a brilliant idea. There was discontent in the ranks at what they felt was an unfair advantage. Until they realised that some of the things Scarlett and Darrell thought they knew – such as the locations of food sources – were no longer the case. And then the worms turned, taking the piss out of the so-called Island Experts.

It didn’t take a psychologist to work out that the one thing Scarlett couldn’t deal with was having the piss taken out of her. She’d learned the hard way that she was generally considered to be ignorant and stupid. Even the ignorant and stupid can read a tabloid headline, after all. But she hated being condescended to, and in her eyes, when anyone mocked her, they were asking for trouble. And she was the one to hand it out.

Things got fractious fast. They came to a head one evening on the second week. The islanders had earned a case of wine, thanks in part to Scarlett’s willingness to immerse herself in the freezing Firth of Forth to find crab pots hidden on the sea bed just offshore. They attacked the wine with gusto over dinner, and inhibitions began to vanish. Danny Williams, who called himself a landscape gardener but was actually a labourer for a garden design firm, started holding forth about why Scarlett had got the location of the vegetable beds so wrong. He was smart enough to make his sarcasm cut her, and she wasn’t in the mood to take it.

‘Fuck off back to bongo bongo land, you fat black arsebandit,’ she’d screamed at him. Cha-ching. It’s hard to imagine a line that could cause more offence on prime-time TV. The media lit up like the main drag in Vegas. Jackpot time. And of course, somebody’s tame monkey got up in the House of Commons and did the whole ‘a nation is outraged’ number. Scarlett’s goose was well and truly cooked.