wasnât doing much for his pent-up tension.
He shuddered as he lobbed his last Montepulciano DâAbruzzo into the crevasse and tried to reign himself in.
Fucking Karla Sorenson. Sheâd ruin his life all over again. Thatâs 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 hadnât seen her for years. He hadnât 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 heâd 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 couldnât have gone over his head. He was the star. They couldnât be treating him like this. It was a publicity gimmick, a stunt. It was all a fake. It just wasnât 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 â more than ever â 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. Donât let that bitch curse me. Donât let her get me like she got you â¦
Â
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 donât.
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 â a text message from his feckless agent: âDrling apologies â u can hate me for not breaking it 2u first â Iâm in Japan â XXX.â
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.
âHeâs not taking calls, Lance,â the secretary said. âIâm sorry. Not even from the likes of you.â
âThe likes of me?â
âThe likes of you. Iâm sorry.â
âYou just tell him heâs got some explaining to do.â Lance found himself speaking through gritted teeth. âTell him to ring me.â
âWill do, dear.â
That secretary was far too cavalier for