Free To the Devil - a Diva! by Paul Magrs Page A

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 …
    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 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.
    â€˜He’s not taking calls, Lance,’ the secretary said. ‘I’m sorry. Not even from the likes of you.’
    â€˜The likes of me?’
    â€˜The likes of you. I’m sorry.’
    â€˜You just tell him he’s got some explaining to do.’ Lance found himself speaking through gritted teeth. ‘Tell him to ring me.’
    â€˜Will do, dear.’
    That secretary was far too cavalier for