The Honey Trap. Mary Baker Jayne
The black cab slunk through the bustle of London’s nightlife before pulling into the shadow of the Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square, where the world premiere of The Milkman Cometh was all set to take place.
On the back seat Angel skimmed her smartphone, looking again through the brief Steve had emailed her. It was the standard showbiz supplement stuff: describe what and who stars were wearing when they arrived on the premiere’s red carpet, who they were with, how they looked and behaved, a brief write-up of the film itself and finally a report on the main part of the evening, the after-party. The opulence, the entertainment, and above all, the gossip. For the Investigator, of course, the dirtier the better.
She turned to Leo in the seat next to her, trying hard to calm the frenzied thump of heart against ribcage.
‘Do I look okay, Leo? Is my hair alright?’ She’d tried out a new style for tonight, sweeping the thick auburn mass into a debonair chignon and finishing with a vintage diamond and pearl teardrop pin that had belonged to her grandmother.
‘Fit as a butcher’s dog, Ginge,’ Leo said, putting an arm around her and giving her shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m this close to ripping your clothes off.’
‘Sweet boy.’ She gave his hand an affectionate pat.
Not for her the slinky little dress and gravity-defying heels, not this time. She knew the chances of Seb seeing her were slim to none and she certainly intended to go out of her way to avoid him, but if by any chance he did catch sight of her then she wanted to be oozing pure class.
With some help from Emily, the undisputed queen of good taste when it came to matters of dress, she’d spent the best part of a week’s wages on a full-length backless gown in floating silver taffeta. ‘Silver will be great with your colouring. Bring out the green in your eyes,’ Emily had told her. The dress had hung on her bedroom door for weeks, where she could look at it and occasionally touch it, until Groucho’s evident desire to shred it up into comfy bedding for himself had forced her to put it away until the time came to wear it.
Angel seemed to be spending most of her meagre salary on clothes for assignments at the moment, and she wondered idly whether she should be putting in expense claims for them. ‘Thong x 1, black satin. Push-up bra x 1, 34C…’ Well, maybe not, although no doubt Steve would get a cheap thrill out of signing them off.
Emily wasn’t wrong about the taffeta. When Angel had tried it on in the changing room, her irises had looked almost emerald set off by the silvery sheen of the material. She’d spent nearly quarter of an hour staring at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that so she could wonder at the way the light caught in the dress’s glistening folds and dimples. A ruched, beaded bodice hugged the curves of her breasts and hips, extending down to her upper thighs before flowing mermaid-like into a lustrous ruffle skirt. It was stunning and she loved herself in it.
Stepping out of the taxi, Angel could taste the close air, tangy with expensive perfume, sweaty bodies and cigarette smoke. The intoxicating scent of glamour, apparently.
She understood now exactly what Steve had meant when he’d said the event would be packed out. Extending out around a fenced-off area was a deep throng of fans, reporters and photographers at least ten-deep, a sea of flash bulbs ready to blind the celebrities as they walked up the red carpet to the venue. She breathed a sigh of relief. No need to hide from Seb here, at least. This was a crowd it would be easy to get lost in.
‘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