Take Two (A psychological thriller)

‘Well, Tracey, it looks as if we won’t be needing the thickener just now,’ said Carolyn. She looked at her watch.  ‘You know what, I think I’ll give Eddie a surprise.’ She gave Tracey a sly smile in the mirror. ‘Do you think you could use your magic brushes and give me some seductive warpaint?’  Eddie Hunter was Carolyn’s long-time boyfriend, and had been since soon after her third divorce.  Eddie was a musician, a talented pianist, but hadn’t had any work fixed up that month so he’d been hanging around his Chelsea flat at a loose end.  She’d been working pretty much non- stop all week and had barely spent any time with him so she figured her early cut would be the perfect opportunity to put that right.

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ said Tracey. ‘Would you like the Parisian courtesan, the subtle seductress or shall we go the full Madonna?’

CHAPTER 3

Carolyn’s driver was waiting for her in reception, sitting on a sofa as he tapped away on his iPhone. He jumped to his feet as he saw her coming through the double doors from the studio and pocketed his phone.  ‘Early bath, Miss Castle?’ he asked.

‘Camera problems so Seb has to stay after school but I get to go home early,’ she said.

‘It’s an ill wind,’ he said, opening the main door for her. His name was Billy McMullen and he’d been her driver for the past three years. He picked her up each morning, drove her to the studio and took her home each evening. If there was any location shooting to be done, it was Billy who drove her in his Mercedes S-Class. He was a former soldier who had driven tanks in Iraq before leaving the Army and setting up his own minicab company in South London. The recession had sent his fledgling business into a tailspin and he’d joined the production company as a driver.  Carolyn had immediately liked the former soldier’s gruff no-nonsense approach to the job and, in particular, his knack of knowing when she wanted to talk and when she wanted to sit in silence. It was a skill none of her three former husbands had ever acquired.

They walked together to the car and Billy opened the rear door for her. ‘Can we stop at an off licence? Then I want to go to Eddie’s place,’ she said as she climbed in.

‘Not a problem, Miss Castle,’ Billy said, closing the door.  He was an excellent driver; nothing seemed to faze him.  If a bus pulled up short in front of them, he just braked and smiled. If a courier cut him up, Billy just grinned.  Carolyn had asked him once how he’d become such an unflustered driver and Billy had just shrugged and said that once you’d driven down a road that you knew was littered with IEDs - Improvised Explosive Devices – whatever happened on a London street was a walk in the park. ‘I’m just grateful no one is trying to shoot me,’ he said. ‘But there are some parts of South London that are a bit dicey these days.’

Carolyn took her iPad from her bag and passed the time on Twitter. She had more than a quarter of a million followers and she Tweeted at least half a dozen times a day, and always posted at least twice on her Facebook page.  She knew her livelihood depended on her fan base and that time spent interacting with her fans was as important as the time she spent in front of the camera.

After half an hour Billy pulled up outside a Nicolas off-licence not far from Eddie’s apartment. ‘Shall I pop in for you, Miss Castle?’ he asked, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Thanks, darling, but with my luck you’d get a ticket,’ she said. ‘I’ll only be five minutes.’ She let herself out of the car and hurried across the pavement and into the shop. There was a cooler full of white wine and champagne and she studied the labels. Eddie was a big fan of Cristal and Pol Roget but they had neither so she had to settle for a bottle of non-vintage Bollinger. She preferred red wine but was happy enough to share a bottle of champagne with him. As she took it out of the cooler, she realised an old couple were watching her, the woman in a cheap cloth coat and wool hat and clutching a leather handbag to her chest, the man in a tweed overcoat and a long striped scarf. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ said the woman. She tugged at her husband’s arm. ‘It’s her. Off the telly.’

Her husband was in his late seventies with a liver-spotted bald head and the look of a turtle that was about to withdraw into its shell. ‘What telly?’ he said,

‘The telly.’ She nodded at Carolyn. ‘You’re that Diana Bourne, off that show.’

Carolyn smiled. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.

‘I love that show,’ said the woman. She nudged her husband. ‘We love that show.’

‘How lovely,’ said Carolyn.

‘What’s it called? Rag and Bone?’

‘Rags To Riches,’ said Carolyn, trying to get by the couple to the cash register.

‘That’s it,’ said the woman. ‘We love it. Wouldn’t miss it. So much better than that EastEnders. What is it with EastEnders? There’s always someone dying or fighting or shouting. But we love your show.’

‘Thank you so much,’ said Carolyn.