Protection (8 page)

Volunteers.

A word that, on any other day, would have seen Isobel running for the hills, except today her superior was looking for volunteers to keep the traffic flowing around the new leisure complex Carrie Shilling was due to open, and she couldn't get her hand up fast enough.

It would be cold, she heard him say, and it was possible the police might temporarily recruit them if things started to get really sticky. Hundreds of people were expected to turn up and if the crowds started to get out of control, then traffic wardens would be expected to reinforce the thin, blue line, which meant that he was sorry but he couldn't guarantee their safety. Hence the need for volunteers.

But Isobel didn't care and with her hand firmly in the air, she waited to be signed up.

The occasion was just what Isobel had been expecting. Row upon row of shouting, cheering morons waving tatty bits of paper, cameras going off left, right and center, mainly from the media, and plenty of swearing aimed at herself and her colleagues as they struggled to keep motorized morons from parking in restricted areas. So far she'd been called a fat cow, a sodding bitch and something in French that she hadn't been able to decipher, but which she felt sure was deeply insulting. All in just under an hour.

But the moment the smart limousine pulled up and she stepped out, none of that mattered and Isobel forgot everthing in favour of trying for a better view, quickly removing her hat in the hope that she might recognize her.

Except it didn't happen. The crowd was just too unruly for the prestigious group to hover long - especially after the debacle of the movie premiere - and they merely paused long enough to smile and wave before disappearing inside. The actual cutting of the ribbon witnessed only by the privileged few while the rest of the hoi polloi were forced to watch the proceedings on a giant video screen erected outside. A disembodied voice, booming from a hidden bank of loud speakers, urging everyone to go home almost as soon as the red ribbon separated in two.

Isobel rolled her eyes. Like that was going to happen!

The crowd wasn't going anywhere. In fact she'd put money on some of these sad gits still standing there after it had grown dark. The majority of them convinced that Carrie was in fact still inside and merely waiting for things to die down before making her exit. Huh! It was more likely that she'd already gone, whisked away the moment she'd done her duty, and bundled out of sight before the last cheer had faded away.

The speakers boomed a second time, again urging folk to leave, and a few did start to drift away, glancing frequently over their shoulders as if they were letting the side down by leaving early and afraid they might miss something whilst their backs were turned.

Isobel, figuring she probably had seen the last of her, launched back into her job and tried to sort out the traffic. It wasn't easy. A white van driver called her a heartless bitch, another asked when she was going to stop faffying about and get everyone moving and a cop tapped her on the shoulder.

“Give us a hand further up the road, would you?”He said when she turned. “There's a car up there needs to get through and the whole bloody road is completely blocked.”

His wink was enough to tell her who the occupants of the car really were, and thrilled, Isobel followed him, eagerly dishing out warnings and tickets before swearing at a guy in a 4x4 who ran over her foot and laughed as he drove off. It hadn't actually hurt, the vehicle moving too quickly to do any real damage, but she swore at him anyway, then smiled when he was stopped further down the road and forced to take what she hoped would be a lengthy detour.

The same constable who'd spoken to her earlier ambled up then, fingering a large tear in the shoulder of his jacket. “Look what they did to me bleedin' uniform!”He grumbled, poking his finger straight through. “Probably have to pay for this myself and all because a bloody film star wants to get home. It ain't flamin' worth it.”

Isobel agreed it wasn't and stopped to glare at a woman in a Mini who looked as though she was considering parking on a double yellow.

“Gonna be a flamin' nightmare gettin' her out of here as well.”The copper continued. “And to think she only lives down the bloody road.”

“Who?”Isobel asked, suddenly all attention. “Carrie Shilling?”

“Yeah, her. She only lives at Downlands. You know, the big house about two miles away. Christ! It would've been bloody quicker if she'd walked!”

Shaking her head, Isobel tutted and made all the right noises, but inside she was trembling with excitement.

Now she knew where she lived.

Climbing out of bed, Carrie yawned, stretched and crossed to the window, opening the curtains onto a bright, clear day, the sun shining from an azure sky as it sparkled across the light coating of frost spread across the lawn.

It was, she thought, the perfect day for a long, leisurely walk. Across fields or through forests or along a cliff top with the wind in her hair - and half a dozen photographers capturing her every move!

Sighing she heard a soft crunching sound and looking down spotted Andrea, walking along the gravel path as she completed her early morning inspection of the property and pausing beneath Carrie's window to briefly examine the frame before strolling on, apparently satisfied that all was well and totally oblivious to Carrie watching from above, pleased that contrary to what she'd first feared, Andrea's presence in the house was turning out to be more of a comfort than a hindrance.

Instinctively Andrea seemed to know when she needed space and kept her distance, yet she always managed to appear just when she was starting to think it would be nice to have some company. She was also very good at her job. Not too pushy, or domineering, but instead solidly reliable. No one, Carrie felt sure, pushed Andrea around.

And she was gay. Now that had come as a surprise, although it hadn't been an unpleasant one. It was just that aside from herself, gay woman always seemed to be wearing dungarees, horrible lace up boots and sporting short, spikey haircuts and only occasionaly had she come across a gay woman who actually looked like a girl. Not that she had anything against gay woman who wanted to dress in dungarees, she simply preferred her girls to look like girls. Like Andrea.

Vaguely she wondered what she would be like in bed?

Not that she had time to ponder now. Carmichael was due at nine thirty, and as much as he'd undoubtedly adore to sit opposite her whilst she was clad in nothing more than a bathrobe, she wasn't going to give him the pleasure. His blood pressure was high enough already.

Amanda, up since six o'clock and on her third cup of coffee of the day, kicked open the back door, dragged the sack into the kitchen and dumped it on the table, pulling out the first of many, many letters.

This was a job she could cheerfully have done without, although it hadn't always been this bad. When Carrie had been appearing in the daytime soap it had been fine, because then there'd been an army of secretaries at the TV studios to cope with it, but now Carrie was a famous film star, all the mail seemed to come direct to the house, where there was no one to help her and she was expected to manage it all on her own.

As if she didn't have enough to do!

Moaning about it wasn't going to help though, and sipping coffee, Amanda began to sort the letters into piles. Most merely wanted an autograph which was easy enough. Carrie always made sure she had a huge pile of signed photos to hand and it was simply a case of popping one into an envelope and sending it off. Next came the requests for a lock of Carrie's hair or some other personal belonging. A standard lette dealt with those stating that Carrie was very sorry, but if she gave locks of her hair to everyone who asked, she'd be bald.

Requests for knickers and other such items of personal underwear were simply binned.

‘ Gusher' letters, as Amanda liked to refer to them, or pages and pages of sickly sweet devotion usually accompanied by numerous drawings of hearts and flowers, received a stock reply as well, although it was nowhere near as gushing as the one they'd sent in, and Amanda often wondered how disappointed they were when they read that Carrie was grateful for their support but unfortunately would be not be joining them for dinner and a moonlit stroll?

And so it went on.

For an hour, in which Amanda managed to stack four piles of letters to worrying height, before answering the back door to Carmichael who breezed in and slammed the door behind him, vibrating the entire kitchen.

“Oh for goodness sake!”Amanda exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the wobbling letters. “Have a care Carmichael. You nearly sent the whole lot flying! And how about arranging a little help around here? I've got enough to do around here without playing secretary as well.”

“And a good morning to you, too.”Carmichael said, kissing the top of her head before sitting down with infinite care. “What's this you've got here then? A week's worth?”

“Not likely! This is just today's! I can't cope with it, Carmichael, so if you wouldn't mind, please get your finger out and do something about it. A whole team of people should be sorting through this little lot, not just me.”

Carmichael tapped his fingers on the table. Amanda scowled at him. “Sorry! Tell you what from now on I'll get the sorting office to deliver all of Carrie's mail direct to the studio and they can deal with it. I can't promise the odd one or two won't still slip through, but hopefully it won't be anything like this. What are all these piles by the way?”

Amanda explained three of the piles and then pointed to the fourth. “And these.”She said derisively. “Are the weird ones.”

Carmichael frowned, and plucking the top one from the pile, read it. “Ah.”He said after a while. “That sort of weird. Does Carrie see these?”

Amanda looked shocked. “No! Of course not, this lot goes straight in the bin! It makes my flesh crawl to think of some of the sick ideas whirling around inside these people's heads. I read one last week that said he wanted to smear chocolate ice cream all over Carrie's naked body and then lick it off! How disgusting is that?”

“Actually Amanda, I think you'll find that's quite a common fantasy these days. Chocolate body paint is big business.”

“It is? Well it still makes my stomach turn. Now what was it you actually wanted? I haven't got all day you know.”

By ten o'clock, Amanda had almost finished sorting the mail, and with her fingers sore from opening envelopes, she gazed at the last few remaining and looked forward to the day when she didn't have to do this anymore.

Autograph.. ‘gusher'.. another autograph and ... what was this?

The dark purple envelope was uncharacteristically heavy. The address printed by computer and recognizing it as something not usually received from Carrie's fans - they invariably preferred the more personal touch and hand wrote their letters- Amanda tore open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of matching note paper.

It was blank save for two lines.

‘ I know where you live.

Will you remember me?'

Weird, Amanda thought and tossed it into the bin.

Later on, and sitting with Carrie and Carmichael in the dining room as they discussed Carrie's schedule, Andrea studied the agent and wondered if Carrie was aware of how much Carmichael fancied her?

Because he was being bloody obvious today.

From a starting distance of several feet, he had, so far, managed to steadily manoeuvre his chair until it was now resting so close to Carrie's side, that his thigh could ‘accidentally' brush against hers, whilst his hand busied itself by pressing home his point with light touches to her arm.

Watching him, Andrea tried to understand why he felt this ridiculous need to ingratiate himself. It wasn't as if he particularly needed to. Carrie obviously adored him, though not in the way the agent clearly would have preferred, and although his gentle flirting was met good naturedly, it was clear by Carrie's body language that she had no intention of encouraging him.

Yet he never seemed to get the message and even now, as they thrashed out the smaller details of promoting her latest film and argued over what she should wear, which parties she should attend and which television chat shows she should accept invitations to, Carmichael again tried to shuffle closer.

“But all they'll want to talk about is that awful film premiere and me being mobbed!”Carrie protested, giving Carmichael the ideal opportunity to take her hand.

“And so what if they do? It's all good publicity. Just laugh and tell them the crowd were lucky you weren't in character or you would have kicked some serious ass!”

“Oh, ha, ha!”Carrie bit back, extracting her hand. “But it's not you who has to go on these things and make a prat of yourself. What do you think Andrea? Should I do Cross's show?”

“Yes, I think you should. If you show them you're embarrassed, they'll just keep on about it. Your best bet is to do a Hugh Grant and turn a potential disaster into a triumph. Show them you've already shrugged it off. The media will soon get bored if they think they're not going to get a reaction.”

Carrie pouted. “You're fired.”

“Sure I am.”

“I mean it! You're fired for siding with Carmichael here. Us girls are supposed to stick together. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?”

Carmichael grinned across the table. “Strike one to me then and I'm delighted I have someone as lovely as Andrea on my side. Sure you're not just jealous Carrie?”

“No, I don't have to be.”Carrie replied and winked at Andrea, who immediately wondered if she had just missed something? Why had Carrie winked at her? To make Carmichael jealous or to convey a message straight to her? There was no way of knowing, and why the hell was she getting so worked up about it? It had just been a wink, that's all. No hidden meaning, no secret agenda, just a friendly wink. Carrie probably hadn't meant anything by it at all.