telling him things she might regret sharing in the morning, when sober.
Lucy nodded. “I want to start living a little, Max. I haven’t done very much of that so far.”
“Well, okay but have something to eat as well.” He retrieved her forgotten packet of crisps, opened it for her and put it next to her glass. “Go on, eat. They might soak up a bit of lager. Look, let’s grab some of these little sausages too and these mince-pies.” Max slid a plate of forgotten bar snacks over to her. “It’s supposed to be the season of indulgence and I reckon, after all that dancing, you’ve earned it.”
Lucy made a face. “Very bossy.”
“That’s me.” He took a crisp himself, and was mollified to see her begin to nibble too. “Are you happy telling me all this, Lucy?”
She nodded vigorously. “I know I can trust you. Don’t know why, I just do.”
Max took another crisp and eyed Lucy thoughtfully. Whatever was nagging away at her was desperate to come out. “Okay, let’s hear the rest. And yes, you can trust me not to let it go any further. I’m all ears.”
“Lovely ears,” murmured Lucy and then shook her head. “Sorry. I meant you’re a good listener.”
Max grinned. “Come on then, I’ve only had half the story, I’ve a feeling there’s more.”
Lucy nodded and continued. “Once the film rights to the first Davy Jones adventure had been sold,” she explained, “Whiz was determined that I should change.” Lucy recalled her agent, in her no-nonsense, hectoring fashion, forcing Lucy to see the best psychotherapist in the country. As Whiz had said, money was no longer an issue. And what was the good of having money when you couldn’t use it?
“So I went to have therapy.”
“What was it? Agoraphobia?” Max asked.
“Amongst other things,” Lucy answered, with a tight smile. Then she lapsed into silence as she remembered.
Progress in her rehabilitation had been slow, painful and erratic. And then, on one glorious spring day, a breakthrough had been achieved. She managed to walk from her father’s Oxford home into the nearby park. Dr Frank Everett and Whiz had watched Lucy’s stumbling hunched progress, witnessing her tense face and rigid shoulders. She had reached the park, paused, then turned and given two wobbly but triumphant thumbs up.
“After time, I began to improve and now there’s no stopping me! Look at me, in Who Dares Dances.”
Since her recovery, Lucy had gone onto greater things and had even managed a number of public appearances. She coped best if Whiz was on hand to groom her and coach her on what to say to whom. With the publicity, sales of the books rocketed even further. Whiz was ecstatic and Lucy found she could easily afford the house that she had bought in the Oxfordshire countryside which she shared with Basil, a nosy tabby with a penchant for garlic.
“Whiz has been amazing. A wonderful help. A really great friend. But I wanted to see if I could stand on my own two feet, so to speak,” Lucy laughed. “I wanted to try something without Whiz or my father’s help. When the invitation came to do this, I jumped at the chance.”
It had actually been the third offer in as many years and Lucy, a great believer in the power of numbers, this time accepted.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” She smiled a little drunkenly, her eyes shining. “So I suppose, yes, you could say I’m the show’s biggest fan!” Lucy took another long drink. The unexpected talking had made her throat sore.
Max stared at her. He wanted to react. Wanted to tell her how amazing he thought she was. His innate shyness held him back. Besides, he had a feeling Lucy still hadn’t finished her confessional.
He was right. After ordering yet another pint of lager, Lucy continued to talk, this time almost to herself. It was as if she’d forgotten he was there. She told him about her lonely childhood in Oxford, how she had retreated from life once her mother had died, how devoted she was to her father. Throughout, his admiration for her grew.
Finally Lucy quietened. She slumped back on her stool, her chin sinking onto her chest in sudden exhaustion. The gruelling day of rehearsing, dancing and filming, and now this unburdening of her past had divested her of all energy. She felt emptied, purged but also strangely free. She turned to Max, grateful that he’d been her confessor.
Max gazed at her. Inside him something changed. Then his protective instinct took over. “Maybe it’s time we called it a night?” he suggested, gently.
Lucy nodded at him and managed a small smile.
“And I don’t know about you but I’ve got Lola rehearsing me at eight thirty sharp tomorrow morning. I need my beauty sleep. Come on,” he continued, as he manoeuvred her off the high bar stool. “Let’s get you a taxi and home to your hotel. Are you staying at the Artemida with the others?”
Again, all Lucy managed was a nod. In her head and heart though, the crush shifted and she knew she was in big trouble.
Step Two.
In her stuffy hotel room the next day, Lucy woke up with a raging hangover. She’d never developed a head for alcohol. As she lay there, willing the pain to subside and for her head to stop thudding, she thought back over the previous night. Once the first painful few words were over, Max had proved good company. He was shy, she’d heard he was, and self-contained, but he was good fun. He was an amazing listener and she’d found herself opening up to him in a way she hadn’t for years, certainly not to a man, certainly not in a public place. Perhaps it was true that every woman ought to have a gay best friend! Tentatively, she raised her head and tested whether she was able to sit up. Mmm, not too bad. She eased herself into a sitting position and gulped the tepid water from the glass on her bedside table. She was sure she’d made a new good friend, she just wished she hadn’t drunk so much.
She rested against the headboard and rubbed her temples, it always eased a headache. She really wasn’t very good with alcohol. She frowned and thought back, she hadn’t had that much surely? Only three pints; she wouldn’t have had two or four as she mistrusted even numbers and it had only been weak lager shandy after all. Oops! She’d had a glass of wine too. That was what had caused the damage, she decided, blearily. Four drinks. Four was never a good number. She’d heard hangovers got worse as you got older but she was only twenty-nine.
Lucy allowed herself a smile, who was she kidding? She was out of practice with more than the drinking side of being with people; she was woefully inadequate at talking to people. Her youth, the time when most people went clubbing, drinking, meeting others, had been spent in solitude, writing.
She’d produced five books in six years. It was only when she’d ‘come out’ that her existence had become interspersed with the odd book signing tour, interviews and, once the film rights had been sold and developed into a series of smash hit films, a few premieres. She’d been steered through the nightmare of publicity by her agent Whiz. As she’d explained to Max, Whiz lived up to her name and whirled round Lucy like a literary tornado organising her, batting away the unwanted, in whatever form it might take, and coaching her to say just the right thing at just the right time to just the right person. The result was that Lucy’s public persona was of a polished and professional person, beautifully dressed and smoothly coiffured. It couldn’t
