movies. I like listening to Barry Manilow, he’s crazy about Meatloaf. But we’re still happily married. It doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.’
‘You might go off him if he made you play endless games of Monopoly’ Lola couldn’t help herself; the words popped out.
But Annie didn’t take offence. Instead she handed Lola a tray of hot mini-samosas and said drily,
‘OK, you may have a point with the Monopoly. Could you be an angel and take these through?’
At least at a film premiere you could safely assume that anyone turning up wouldn’t object to being snapped. Gabe, who had high hopes for this evening, marvelled at the fact that the air temperature was minus several degrees and he was freezing his nuts off in his leather jacket, yet the endless parade of starlets doing their beam- and-pose bit on the red carpet were wearing dresses the size of your average J-cloth.
Maybe the layers of fake tan kept them warm.
‘Tana, over here!’ bellowed a gaggle of paparazzi as a slinky brunette in a shimmering purple scrap of nothing emerged from the next limo in the queue. Gabe wasn’t entirely sure who she was — one of the Coronation Street girls possibly — but he A clicked and snapped along with the rest of them and wondered briefly what it must be like to wear six-inch strappy stilettos. Oh well, with a bit of luck he’d never find out. Poor old Tania was developing a fine pair of bunions; soon all she’d be able to 1 fit those feet of hers into would be flip-flops. a
‘Matt, Matt, give us a smile,’ yelled the paps as the next celebrity sauntered up the carpet. OK, Gabe was pretty sure he knew this one, he was a Channel 4 TV presenter ... or maybe a member of that boy band with the reputation for unzipping their trousers and flashing their- Eurgh, right second time. What these boys didn’t seem to i realise was that where the sight of their backsides was concerned,familiarity bred contempt. Once you’d seen one spotty adolescent bottom, you’d seen them all.
‘What a tosser,’ murmured the photographer next to Gabe. ‘Their last single only just scraped into the top forty. They’re getting desperate now, terrified their record company’s about to dump them. By this time next month they could be back working in Burger King.’
‘Me too.’ Gabe spoke with feeling. Let’s face it, he hadn’t exactly set the paparazzi world alight since his fluke photo back in Sydney. As the next limo drew up he polished the lens of his Leica Digilux, ready for whoever might be about to
‘Hey, Savannah, this way!’The paparazzi lurched into a frenzy of action, galvanised by the unexpectedness of her appearance. With a jolt, Gabe saw her emerge from the car behind a huge security guy in a too-tight dark suit with the look of a debt collector about him.
This was the public face of Savannah Hudson. Tonight she was in full-on film-star mode. Her blond hair was carefully styled, her make-up perfect. Around her narrow shoulders she wore a silvery velvet wrap; the rest of her body was draped in bias-cut white satin. She looked like an infinitely fragile, stunningly beautiful goddess. Not a plastic carrier bag, not a pair of Wellington boots in sight.
No bald heads either, unless you counted the shaven one belonging to the security gorilla.
Savannah posed for the photographers, showcased her outfit and dutifully smiled while turning this way and that. Having taken a few pictures, Gabe stopped and put his camera down in order to watch her. Maybe it was his stillness amongst the frenzied screaming horde that attracted her attention but moments later she spotted him. Their eyes met for a second. Gabe nodded, acknowledging her with a brief smile, but there was no flicker of acknowledgement in return.
Savannah’s gaze slid past him., the smooth professional smile moved on to dazzle the next gaggle of photographers and after a few more poses she was off up the red carpet to cheers of delight from the assembled fans.
Well, what had he expected? For her to wave and yell out, ‘Hey, everyone, there’s the guy over there who papped me when my wig came off!’
Gabe got on with the business of snapping the next wave of celebs, standing his ground as the other paparazzi pushed and shoved around him. Several minutes later, just as he’d bagged a telling shot of a husband and wife giving each other the kind of look that hinted their marriage might be on the rocks, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder.
It was a firm hand and — bloody hell — an enormous one. Looking round, Gabe saw that it belonged to the security guy in the too-tight suit.
‘What’s wrong?’ Gabe took in the grim expression on the man’s face, the interest of the photographers around him. Shit, was he about to be beaten to a pulp on the pavement?
‘You’ve been pestering Miss Hudson: The words were accompanied by a menacingly jabbed finger. ‘My advice to you, sonny, is to leave her alone. Got that?’
For a split second Gabe thought he was being targeted by a pickpocket. Then he realised his wallet wasn’t being stolen, something was being pushed into his jacket pocket.
He murmured, ‘Got it,’ and — out of sight of the other paps — felt the huge man give his pocket a meaningful pat. ‘Glad to hear it.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said one of the paps when the incredible hulk had stalked off. ‘I thought he was going to hammer you into the ground.’
‘Me too.’ With a grimace Gabe raked his fingers through his hair. ‘Close call. In fact I’m going to get myself a drink to celebrate still having a neck.’
Chapter 37
Around the corner, away from the crowds and the noise, Gabe pulled a folded cinema flyer from his pocket. In the semidarkness he had to turn it over twice before spotting the mobile number scribbled diagonally across one corner.
Mystified, he called the number. It was answered by the incredible hulk.
This was getting more Dan Brown by the minute. ‘It’s me.’ Feeling stupid, Gabe said. ‘The photographer.’
‘That’s a polite way of putting it.’ The hulk sounded amused.
‘You could call yourself paparazzi scum.’
‘If there weren’t any of us,’ Gabe retorted, ‘you’d be out of a job. Why am I ringing you anyway?’
‘The boss wants to see you.’
