Superstar (22 page)

"Will you send
a car?"

"Yeah, I've
got someone here to help with your disguise, too. Don't worry, she
doesn't know what's going on."

"Good. I'll
see you later."

Carrin
hung up and lay down on the bed, nervous tension draining her. It
was one thing to plan such a daring scheme, but quite another to go
through with it. The thought of Mark, and what he stood to lose if
she failed, bolstered her resolve, and she got up and went to
splash her face again. She owed him this, for all his help. She
studied the pale face that stared back at her from the mirror.
Lines of strain scored her brow, her lips were pale, and sadness
and pain haunted her eyes. What a mess.

By the time
the car arrived, she had eaten a light supper, which calmed her
somewhat. Before going down, she filled in the bogus cheque with
the amount of two million dollars and made it out to Mr Michael
Bird. She almost smiled, thinking about how angry he would be when
he found that he could not cash it. He could hardly go to the
police, could he?

At
Simon's house, she was ushered inside, wondering if any paparazzi
were hiding in the bushes again. They would have a field day with
all her comings and goings. Simon showed her into the study, where
a round-faced girl with a mop of curly red hair, cheerful brown
eyes and freckles looked up from the book that she was leafing
through. She put it aside and bounced to her feet, grinning. Simon
introduced her as Anne, a make-up artist in training.

Carrin shook
hands with her, noticing the covetous looks that Anne shot Simon
when he was not looking. Simon explained, as he poured drinks for
them, that Carrin was going to a charity ball that required its
guests to dress up as famous screen idols. Carrin admired his
smooth fabrication, and the ease with which he spun the tale,
complete with embellishments. He really was an accomplished liar.
Anne listened raptly, soaking up every word. When Simon had
finished his story, he turned to Anne, who, caught unawares by his
sudden attention, almost choked on the sip of cool drink she had
just taken.

"Well, who do
you think you could make Carrin look like?"

Anne coughed.
"Oh, Patricia Merril, definitely."

Simon's brows
shot up in surprise, and Carrin stared at Anne in astonishment.
Patricia Merril was one of Hollywood's most celebrated sex symbols,
a sultry blond with come-hither eyes and the body of a Greek
goddess.

"Patricia
Merril?" Simon echoed.

Anne nodded.
"Sure. She's got the bone structure and the right look. All she
needs is make up and a wig."

Simon looked
delighted, grinning at Carrin, who pulled a face at him. "Great,
let's do it then."

Anne
unpacked a professional-looking array of make-up and a selection of
wigs from the bag she had brought with her. Carrin sat down, and
Anne bent over her. For the next hour, Carrin learnt how Mark felt
every day, trapped in his make-up chair. Anne applied the make up
with pain staking attention to detail, first a mat foundation that
matched her skin, then eyeliner, eye shadow and mascara. She
darkened Carrin's brows, painted her lips a deep ruby red, and
applied a thin layer of powder to her skin.

The final
touches were blusher on her cheekbones, under her chin and along
the sides of her nose. Anne handed her a mirror and stood back to
admire her handiwork. Carrin almost gasped at the stranger's face
in the mirror. A sultry, radiant screen goddess stared back at her
with enormous eyes that smouldered in a perfect face above a
sensual mouth. Never had she looked so lovely, and she almost
wished Mark was here to see her transformation. Anne brushed a
curly blond wig and fitted it over Carrin's short hair, completing
the illusion.

Simon
muttered, "That's perfect, Anne. Well done."

Anne beamed
and blushed, turning away to pack her bag and hide her
embarrassment at Simon's praise. The actor studied Carrin with
sudden interest, and she frowned at him, making him cough and look
away. Simon pressed a cheque into Anne's hand as he showed her to
the door, hushing her protestations. When he returned, Carrin
scowled at her image in the mirror.

"You're a
knock out," he enthused.

"Well I'm not
supposed to be a knock out. I'm supposed to be a reporter from
Centrefold Magazine. Anne's done her job too well. I do look like
Patricia Merril." She glared at him. "That wasn't such a great
idea, after all."

"I had to
think up a good story." He considered her. "We just have to make a
few changes, that's all. Wait here."

Simon put down
his drink and left Carrin to sigh and study her perfect image. It
seemed a shame to spoil it, which was, of course, exactly what they
would have to do. Simon returned a few minutes later with a long
black wig and a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He whipped off the
curly blond wig and pulled the black one on, then slipped the
spectacles onto her nose. They were props with plain glass in them,
and when Carrin looked in the mirror again, the difference amazed
her. Gone was Patricia Merril, and instead an attractive brunette
with glasses stared back at her. Simon rubbed his hands.

"Perfect! No
one will recognise you now, not even Mark, I bet."

Carrin tidied
the tousled wig with a brush and twisted it up into a bun, which
made her look like an attractive school ma'am.

"Even better,"
Simon commented.

Satisfied,
Carrin glanced at her watch. "I'd better get going."

"Right. I'm
coming too, of course."

"Birdie said I
must come alone," she protested.

"No way! I'll
wait in the car. They won't know I'm there."

"It's
risky."

He shook his
head. "You're not going alone; it's too dangerous. We have to tell
Mark about this afterwards, and if he found out that I let you walk
into that snake pit alone, he'd throttle me."

"But I will
be, anyway."

"I'll be there
if anything goes wrong."

She sighed.
"Okay."

Finishing her
drink, she pushed up the glasses that were sliding down her nose
and followed Simon to the waiting limousine. In the car, Simon
turned to her, frowning.

"One more
thing. Don't eat or drink anything at Birdie's. There's no telling
what he might slip into it. He thinks it's a great joke to get
people bombed. I remember once, a reporter went there to interview
him and came out raving on cocaine. So be careful, okay?"

Carrin nodded,
her gut a tight knot, and pushed up the glasses that were sliding
down to pinch her nostrils shut again. The limousine slid to a halt
at a set of imposing iron gates, which opened to admit them. The
car traversed a long, walled driveway and pulled up before an ugly,
castle-like building that shrieked bad taste from every nook and
cranny of its stone walls. Floodlights shone on the monstrosity,
making it look like some medieval scene from a horror movie.

"I feel sick,"
Carrin informed Simon.

"You can't get
sick now, for Pete's sake. Pull yourself together. Remember, Mark's
future depends on this."

Carrin nodded,
taking deep breaths. The nausea passed just in time, as a flunky
opened the door. Simon had switched off the interior light, and
stayed the shadows as Carrin climbed out. Clutching the purse that
contained the bogus cheque, she followed the man into the house.
She walked along a depressing hall filled with bad paintings, and
he showed her into a vast room hung with swathes of silky,
transparent material, like a scene form Arabian Nights.

Fake antiques
nestled amongst cushions strewn across the floor. Several scantily
clad girls lounged around, drinking, smoking or eating cakes and
fruit. They all wore too much make up and looked stoned. A hairy
man clad in loose robes sat in the corner twanging a sitar. A huge
television screen on one wall showed a blue movie, and an odd,
pungent smell hung in the air. She scanned the room, spotting a
languid arm rising from a pile of cushions to wave her over.

"Over here,
Mrs Jones," a familiar grating voice said.

Carrin hurried
over, and stopped in confusion at the sight of two naked girls
lying in the arms of a half-naked, bearded man. He wore a nose ring
and earrings, his long hair braided and oiled. Tattoos covered his
chest and patterned his arms with bright colours.

He grinned.
"Care to join us?"

"No, thank
you."

He eyed her.
"Hmm. Pity." He snapped his fingers, and a bikini-clad girl swayed
over, carrying a tray laden with drinks and snacks. "Have a drink,
something to eat."

Carrin eyed
the odd-coloured drinks and snacks. The girl leered, chewing her
gum. Carrin shook her head. "No, thank you." She glanced at her
watch. "Could we get down to business? I have another
appointment."

Birdie
chuckled. "Sure, reporter lady, whatever you say." He pushed aside
the naked girls and sat up. "Mitch, bring the stuff."

A goon clad in
a T-shirt and shorts came over with an envelope, which he handed to
Birdie. The musician fanned himself with it, sucking on the pipe of
a hubbly-bubbly.

"So, let's see
the money, honey."

Carrin dug in
her handbag and took out the cheque. His eyes followed it. "Let me
see the photographs," she said.

Birdie tossed
the envelope to her, and she pulled out some glossy prints. They
showed a naked Janice sprawled on the cushions of this room, her
eyes glassy, and a silly grin on her face. In some, a near-naked
man cuddled her, and he looked like the goon who had brought the
envelope. Carrin swallowed and tried to look pleased.

"Very
nice."

"Quite a
scoop, eh? Well worth two million. Those will ruin Mark Lord and
his new film." He chuckled.

Carrin nodded.
"Quite likely. Where are the negatives?"

Birdie leered.
"Well, now, aren't you a clever one?"

"I'm paying
for an exclusive. I want the negatives, all of them."

His leer
faded, and he looked a little peeved, but snapped his fingers at
the goon, who went out. Carrin counted the photographs. There
appeared to be a whole set.

Birdie took a
glass from the tray that the gum-chewing girl had left. "A toast,
Mrs Jones. To business."

Carrin eyed
the glasses. "I don't drink."

He gestured.
"No problem, there's mango juice."

She hesitated,
trapped. Birdie held his glass up, waiting. One sip couldn't hurt,
she reflected, and she really had no choice. Kneeling on the
cushions, she picked up a glass of what looked like mango juice and
clinked it against his.

"To
business."

Carrin took a
sip and put the glass back on the tray. It tasted like mango juice,
to her relief. Birdie took a gulp of his drink and smiled at her.
She wished the goon would hurry up. Behind her, the blue movie
moaned and sighed. The sitar twanged, and Birdie's naked partners
fondled each other.

At last the
goon returned and handed her a roll of film. She pulled it out and
counted the frames, making sure that it was all there. Birdie
leered at her.

"It's all
there, Mrs Jones."

"How do I know
you didn't take another roll?"

He shrugged.
"'Cause I say so."

She pushed her
glasses up her nose. "Very well." She gave him the cheque, which he
held it up to the light, looking more alert. He scrutinised it
while she held her breath, then kissed it.

"So nice doing
business with you," he grated. "A toast to Centrefold Magazine, and
the lovely spread you'll have."

Unable to
refuse, Carrin picked up the glass of mango juice again, made the
toast with a forced smile, and took another sip. Replacing the
glass, she stood up, stuffing the negatives into the envelope with
the prints. The room spun, and she swayed.

Birdie
chuckled from amongst the cushions. "Enjoy your trip, Mrs
Jones."

Carrin went
cold with trepidation, but turned and walk to the door. The flunky
escorted her back to the car, but by the time she reached it, her
legs had turned to rubber and her head spun. The goon opened the
door, and she tripped over the edge and sprawled across the seat
into Simon's lap. The goon chuckled and slammed the door, then the
car moved off. Simon helped her to sit up, and she took off the
itchy wig and annoying glasses.

"What
happened? Are you all right?" he demanded.

"I'm okay, but
he slipped me something."

Simon cursed.
"I told you not to drink or eat anything."

"I tried! He
made me toast the deal with mango juice, only it wasn't just
juice." To her horror, her words were slurred.

"How much?"
Simon demanded.

"Just a sip.
Two sips."

"Why didn't
you fake it?"

"Fake it?"

"Yeah! Act
like you're drinking, but don't swallow."

Carrin shook
her head. "I'm not an actress. I don't know all the little tricks
you do."

He sighed.
"Okay, well, we'll just have to get you home and sobered up. You
got the photos?"

She gave him
the envelope, and he switched on the interior light to study them.
"Wow, Janice's not bad. Maybe I should have gone out with her for a
while."

"Oh, give your
ego a rest," she groaned.

Carrin's head
spun faster and faster, her eyes seemed to be permanently crossed,
and her stomach heaved. The journey back to Simon's house passed in
a blur, and the next thing she knew, the car had stopped, and Simon
was trying to drag her out of it. Her legs wouldn't obey her, and
buckled as he pulled her out, foiling his attempts to get her to
walk. First he put her arm around his shoulders, but their
difference in height made it awkward, and she kept swinging around
to bang into his chest. She protested in slurred words that made no
sense to her or, apparently, anyone else. Simon gave a grunt of
annoyance and scooped her up. Carrin gazed up at him with dim eyes,
wondering who the hell he was and why she did not care.