To the Devil - a Diva! (7 page)

‘I know. I know all about you. I know what you really are.'

The words were still ringing in Karla Sorenson's delectable ears. Just before they came out of the commercial break and into the interview segment, her plump and matronly hostess on the Brunch Show had looked her dead in the eye. Plain as the daylight through the plate glass studio windows she'd said: ‘I know what you really are.' And poor Karla, sitting ready on the orange settee in one of her black lace ensembles, had to go through the whole cervical smear phone-in gathering up her composure and trying not to wonder what the batty hostess had meant by that.

Karla yanked up the sleeves of her fishnet batwing cardigan and plunged into presenting her public face, exactly as she knew she had to. No one could accuse Karla Sorenson of being unprofessional. She was a star and had been one since l958. She'd been in the public eye since she was
twenty-one
and no clipped little snippy comment from a daytime TV trollop was going to put her off her stroke. Not now that she was about to become huge again.

Immediately after the phone in (a partial success. Wasn't really Karla's bag, medical advice) they had cut to a segment about making furniture for cats. Then it was another break.
Then it was a countdown to the coffee time interview and Karla would have to field questions from the matronly presenter, Brenda, and her pillock of a husband.

The floor manager was a girl with purple hair who was quite in awe of her (‘I adored you in ‘Get Inside Me, Satan!' she whispered, showing Karla to her position). Karla was feeling rather hustled this morning. But these were the trappings of success. She remembered. Being successful meant feeling harried all the time. She was just out of practice.

Just before they went back on air she managed to ask Brenda, the presenter: ‘What were you talking about earlier?' She gave Brenda the benefit of the doubt and put on her trademark seductive murmur.

Brenda was dishwater-blonde and sneering. She clutched her script and acted evasive. ‘Don't you think the phone-in went well? I think we've saved some lives this morning.'

‘Bugger that,' Karla said. ‘That's not what I'm here for. My agent never said anything about a rubbishy phone-in. I meant, what did you mean before, when you were whispering to me?'

Oh – Brenda's mascara. Thick like engine oil. The presenter was batting her eyelashes, all a-tremble. It was like a never-you-mind kind of gesture and the floor manager was counting them down to going to out live. Just as the pillocky husband came bustling up in his River Island suit, scanning a clipboard and running a hand over his hair-spray-sticky hair.

‘Jesus – you're a big bugger!' he laughed in Karla's face. ‘Look at the size of you! You're huge! No, no, don't get up. Don't mind me. I'm always honest like that. It's just my style. The viewers love it. And it's a shock, really … I'm a great
fan of yours. I have been since I was a kid and you were in all those horror movies … But, God. You've really piled it on, haven't you, love?'

Karla narrowed her lilac eyes.

‘Welcome back. We're both here with our very special guest, Karla Sorenson. Who you might have already noticed this morning, splashed liberally over the gutter press. Now, that hasn't happened in twenty years or more. She's here to tell us why she's about to come out of retirement. Karla, good morning …'

‘Good morning.'

‘Now tell us, what's it all about? I mean, it's a bit cheap, isn't it?' Brenda smiled sweetly.

‘Yes,' said the pillocky husband. ‘Why don't you explain to us why you're coming out of obscurity again.'

Karla sat back on the tangerine sofa and took her time. ‘It's all very simple. As you know, I'd semi-officially retired from acting …'

The pillock grinned. ‘All your parts dried up, eh?'

She ignored him. ‘Then just last week my agent Flissy rang me out of the blue and announced there was a peach of a part in the offing. It had my name all over it.' She smiled at camera two and paused.

The two hosts looked at her expectantly.

‘It's on a very famous show, isn't it?' said Brenda.

‘Indeed,' Karla said. ‘The five-times-a-week late night soap,
Menswear
.'

‘The controversial late night soap,
Menswear
.'

The pillock added, ‘The one that's had droves of viewers switching off in disgust …'

‘Pah,' Karla waved her hand and made her jade and
amethyst rings glitter under the studio lights. Without even thinking about it, she was letting her eastern European accent grow thicker. ‘I have always been involved in very controversial work. It is just in my nature, as an artist …' Then she seemed to grow self-conscious under the pillocky husband's gaze and she drew her batwing cardigan over her breasts.

‘Indeed,' he said, as if prompted. ‘I remember all your saucy movies. I'm sure our viewers do, too. Especially our male viewers. We get a lot of unemployed men watching us, don't we, Brenda? You were a big part of my adolescence, Karla. I used to sneak in the pictures to see you, even when I was too young.' He chuckled at this.

‘Really,' said Karla.

‘You've been a colossal inspiration to growing boys, through the past – God knows how many – decades.'

Karla frowned.

Brenda had to burst in. ‘So tell us … will the part you'll be playing in
Menswear
be a similar role? To the frosty lesbian vampire queen we know and love so well?'

‘I don't know,' Karla said. ‘They have not shown me a script yet. All I know is that my character is called – surprise surprise – Karla, and that I turn up as the new manageress of the department store in
Menswear
. They intend to expand into ladieswear and haute couture and that obviously causes friction.'

The pillock slapped his knees. ‘I bet it will! Well, I'm sure we'll all be tuning in for that. Even if it has gone right downhill.'

Brenda was primping her lipstick with one lilac fingernail. ‘The show's been in some trouble, hasn't it? The ratings have
been falling off. You're coming in to spice things back up really, aren't you?'

Now Karla was on familiar ground. ‘I always spice things up.'

‘It's hardly as if
Menswear
needs any spicing,' the pillock said. ‘It's drawn more complaints – hasn't it? – than any TV show in history.'

Karla shrugged. ‘I like to be where the action is.'

Brenda smiled. She was noting the floor manager doing the wind-up gesture behind camera one. ‘Well, we know that's true.'

‘One more question,' the pillock butted in. ‘It's a racy show. Will you be doing full frontal?'

‘I beg your …'

‘We know you're not averse to splashing your bosoms over the papers, but will you go the whole hog?'

‘I don't really see …' Karla looked to Brenda for help.

‘It's a valid question,' shrugged Brenda.

‘It's a raunchy show,' the pillock said. ‘Just how raunchy do they want you to be?'

‘I've had no discussions yet …'

‘Breasts? Fully nude? Full-on sex?'

‘I—' Karla gaped at the pillock.

‘Beaver?'

‘Karla Sorenson,' said Brenda, ‘thank you very much for joining us on the sofa for coffee this Brunchtime.'

Karla sagged back. ‘That's quite all right.'

Then the pillock seemed fired by further inspiration. ‘Wait a minute.
Menswear
– that's Lance Randall's show, isn't it?'

His wife was glaring at him. ‘You know it is. Lance has
been on here talking about it. Why?' She slapped his knee affectionately. They knew the viewers loved that. A
hairs-breadth
from a spat.

‘Lance Randall is the son of the late, great Sammi Randall, isn't he?' said the pillocky husband. ‘And she was your
co-star
, wasn't she, Karla?'

‘Ha!' said Brenda. ‘See? He said he was a real fan.'

‘Hm,' said Karla. ‘A fan indeed. And yes, Mr Randall's late lamented mother was my co-star in ‘Carnival of Flesh' and numerous other movies. She was very well known to me.'

‘I'll say she was!' mugged the pillock. ‘That ‘Carnival of Flesh' was like my whole education in … in …'

‘Yes?' asked Karla, and batted her eyelashes.

‘Well, everything,' he finished lamely.

His wife punched his knee again. He was quite deflated.

‘I'm sure it will be very nice for you,' Brenda said. ‘And a vast, huge success. It will be lovely to see you working again.'

‘Thank you,' said Karla. ‘I'm sure I will be fantastic.'

‘Let's go to that break now. Late, but who's perfect?'

Karla caught up with Brenda again in reception.

‘What did you mean, you know what I really am?'

Brenda snatched her elbow away and her face was white with fury.

‘Get your filthy frigging hands off me,' she hissed. Her eyes were blazing. ‘Don't touch me – you succubus … you incubus …'

‘You what?'

‘You fucking … devil woman!'

Having got rid of Dennis the milkman at last, Lance went into his spare bedroom and worked off some of his tension chucking empty wine bottles four storeys down into the alley below. He did this quite a lot. No one had complained yet about an alleyway full of broken glass. It was an alley that went between the back doors of pubs and clubs, the village taxi firm and a kebab shop. Maybe they thought it was normal. This morning, though, all the crashing and tinkling wasn't doing much for his pent-up tension.

He shuddered as he lobbed his last Montepulciano D'Abruzzo into the crevasse and tried to reign himself in.

Fucking Karla Sorenson. She'd ruin his life all over again. That's what she was: a destroyer. The kind of person you never wanted to come across. Let alone twice in one lifetime.

And Lance had been on such a cushy number with
Menswear
. He knew it. His life these past three years had been going just fine. Better than fine. Terrific. Terrific for the first time in years and years of disappointment and mediocrity. Of course it was inevitable that some evil frigging bitch from hell would have to swoop down and bollocks it all up for him.

He hadn't seen her for years. He hadn't seen her since he was fourteen. Still he hated her with a passion that disturbed him. It was a broiling hatred that had lurked under his
gym-toned
muscle all these years, biding its time till a morning like this when it could erupt again afresh, like eczema. It was making him shake as he stood by the open window in his dressing gown. It was incredible. He put a hand to his cropped, dark hair and found he'd come out in a fine, cool lather of sweat.

Shower. Then phone his agent. Then phone the producer. There was an order to this. A proper way of doing things. Of course they couldn't have gone over his head. He was the star. They couldn't be treating him like this. It was a publicity gimmick, a stunt. It was all a fake. It just wasn't possible they were doing high-profile casting and then going ahead and publicising it and not telling him about it. It was ridiculous. He just had to play it calm. Calm down.

Lance went to light two scented candles under the l963 studio portrait of his mother. She was in chiffon. Looking every inch the star, her head tilted just so. Listening intently, eyes wide with anticipation. Lovely dangling earrings, hair all beehived up and white-blonde. Sammi Randall at her greatest. Sammi radiating stardom and calm, calm, calm.

Lance meditated fiercely for a few moments, as he usually did at this point in his daily routine. Truly believing that his mother had her ears cocked and was picking up his faint, fervid prayers. Today he was a little louder and even more impassioned. He needed – more than ever – that benign and glittering spirit of his mother to descend upon him today.

Oh, Mum, Mum, help me now, he whispered, coming out of his trance with his heart beating hard. Don't let that bitch curse me. Don't let her get me like she got you …

Lance went to shower off traces of Dennis the milkman. His bathroom was all smooth granite, hardly any features in it to draw the eye. Very calming. Oh, frig … why does she have to come back into my life now? Do people have no sense, no tact?

No, he decided. On the whole, they don't.

He towelled himself vigorously and dressed hastily in jeans and a zippy top. Dressing down. It was a slack day. He could afford a stylish negligence.

Straight on that mobile. His new phone that looked like some kind of stupid Ladyshave; lavender blue and lighting up fluorescent green. That pissed him off, too, the ugliness of his new mobile.

First – a text message from his feckless agent: ‘Drling apologies – u can hate me for not breaking it 2u first – I'm in Japan – XXX.'

When he tried, no one in her office would take his call. The producer next. Adrian, that slick little gobshite. The man behind this casting fiasco.

‘He's not taking calls, Lance,' the secretary said. ‘I'm sorry. Not even from the likes of you.'

‘The likes of me?'

‘The likes of you. I'm sorry.'

‘You just tell him he's got some explaining to do.' Lance found himself speaking through gritted teeth. ‘Tell him to ring me.'

‘Will do, dear.'

That secretary was far too cavalier for Lance's liking. He clicked her off. Who next?

He was stymied and cross all over again. Standing barefoot on the stripped pine of his living room.

He had to get out of his flat. Suddenly the whole apartment seemed claustrophobic.

He yanked his trainers on and thundered out onto his terrace, down his private fire escape and into Slag! bar next door. He realised he'd brought the scrunched-up Daily Mirror with him.

The upstairs bar was just about empty and looking, in the morning light, even more like an airport departures lounge. There were wide Bridget Riley-type canvases that swirled vertiginously on every side.

Lance hurried to the copper-plated bar. No public here. He ordered a gin and tonic. The bar staff knew his habits. It was that skinny lad Colin serving on, in a black T-shirt, ‘Slag!' in silver letters between his nipples. His hair was tweaked up in red spikes.

‘Nice hairdo,' Lance growled.

Colin grinned. ‘Thanks!'

‘OK, don't get carried away. Have you seen this fucking travesty?' He spread the paper out on the beaten copper of the bar top.

‘Oh,' said Colin, pouring tonic on ice, making it glisten and crack. ‘I have, as a matter of fact. My gran gets the
Sun
, but it's the same story in there.'

‘You still living with your gran?'

Colin nodded. He pushed the chunky drink into Lance's waiting hand. ‘Until I get some sugar daddy whisking me away, yep. Up in the tower block with me old gran. She's
a barmaid, too. All her life. Says there's nowt wrong with it.'

‘Nice,' said Lance.

Colin peered at the headline about Karla Sorenson and turned to pages four and five. ‘Isn't it good news, though? She's what I call a real, old-time star.'

‘Is she?' said Lance bitterly. ‘I wouldn't.'

‘Oh, but she's been around years, hasn't she? She's as old as my gran, I think. And look at her! Still a goer! Still a slagbag!' Colin was hugging himself with pleasure.

‘And that's good, is it?'

‘Oh, yes,' said the barboy, clutching the tall pumps thoughtfully. ‘I'm not like the rest of them you see in here. With them, you're dead if you're over twenty-five. It's all the cult of youth. No, I can see why you'd want to live longer … to live as long as her and still be out there, being sexy.' He smiled shyly at Lance. ‘Or your age, even. You've lasted pretty well, Mr Randall.'

Lance looked at him and smiled stiffly. ‘Well, that's as maybe …'

‘I finish at one,' said Colin.

‘Pardon?'

‘My shift. I'm free all afternoon.'

‘So?'

‘I don't know. Just in case. If you feel like showing me round your apartment. I've had a spy through the window from the terrace bar. It looks very nice.'

Lance shook his head disbelievingly. ‘I'm afraid I'm very busy this afternoon, Colin. And besides …'

The barboy laughed. ‘And besides, you're not queer.'

‘That's right.'

‘I was only after having a look round your studio pad, you know.'

‘Yeah, right,' Lance laughed, and necked the last of his gin. ‘And next thing you knew, we would be up to all sorts of impromptu naughtiness. Just like it is on TV.'

‘Well, wouldn't it be like that?'

Lance put his glass down. ‘No. I'm not gay.'

‘Yeah. Right.'

‘Anyway. There's bigger things at stake this afternoon, than a little tumble in the hay with an overkeen barman …'

‘Suit yourself.'

‘I do,' Lance grinned.

‘What's got you so worked up, anyway? Scared that Karla Sorenson's gonna take the limelight off you?'

Lance grew suddenly grim. ‘No,' he said. ‘I'm scared she's going to kill me and suck out all my blood.'