Free Creed by James Herbert Page B

fringing that gleaming pink bald pate), gliding through the newsroom towards him.
    ‘Uh, I’m not sure . . .’
    ‘Right. Get over to Claridge’s. I’ve just had word Woody Allen and his whole brood are staying there.’
    ‘ All the kids?’ Creed remembered there were seven or eight at the last count, some of them Mia Farrow’s from previous marriages, others adopted, and one at least from the loins of the comedian himself.
    ‘He’s dragging them around Europe for some reason that he and God alone know. How eccentric can you get? A horde of petulant infants with just Mia and a nanny to control them. He’s totally doolally, of course.’
    Creed, being Creed, found it difficult to disagree. Sammy could be murder just on his own; imagine a whole posse of snotnoses hanging on to the backseat of your pants. Christ, that was beyond common reason.
    ‘You know I’ll never get past the hotel’s front door,’ he said.
    ‘Then you’ll have to hang around outside in the cold, won’t you?’ Blythe replied with some pleasure. ‘That is your job, isn’t it? Hanging around street corners.’
    ‘At least I keep out of the gutter.’
    ‘Oh, my , do you now? Well that is news.’
    The diarist waggled his head and Creed felt like smacking it. Instead he turned away.
    Blythe’s icy voice stopped him again. ‘I assume you’ll be covering Lady Coventry’s little soirée at the Grosvenor this evening?’
    He’d forgotten all about that one. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said.
    ‘I’d like something other than guests arriving and leaving, thank you.’
    ‘You know how difficult it is to get into one of her bashes. She’s one of the few socialites who detests publicity.’
    ‘Can’t get into Claridge’s, can’t get into the Grosvenor. Is our boy losing his touch?’
    Several of the journalists nearby were looking up from their word processors with interest.
    ‘I’ve never been beaten yet,’ Creed said coolly, aware that one of the journos who knew him better than most had cupped a hand to his mouth, his snigger sounding like a small sneeze.
    ‘Well then, let’s see how you do, shall we?’ said Blythe, obviously pleased that the paparazzo had risen to the bait. ‘My sources tell me that the Duchess of York will be attending tonight, gallivanting, no doubt, while her husband roams the oceans. I also have it on good authority that the diet has gone to pot again, so how about a nice one of that gorgeous pouting bottom? I have the caption in mind already: “Fergie’s fast fails to last”. How does that grab you?’
    ‘Very pithy. You want me to get a shot of her arse?’
    ‘With her face at least in profile, dear boy. Otherwise it could be any body’s rear end, couldn’t it?’
    ‘That might be difficult. You see, arse and face are at different ends and on different sides of the body.’
    A snigger from nearby again, but the diarist was enjoying himself too much to notice.
    ‘Then we’ll find out how good you really are, won’t we? I mean, it might just be possible to understand Jack without Anjelica, even though they’d been dining together all evening and even left the restaurant at the same time. One of Jack leaping headfirst into a car might be exciting, but hardly provides a story to hang on it. But now you have two subjects inescapably joined at the waist to capture in the one frame. It doesn’t sound too difficult to me. And to show how much we all admire your efforts at the Dispatch , I’ll award you a nice magnum of champagne when you bring me the shot.’ Smiling airily, he looked around the newsroom as if for witnesses, then back at Creed. ‘How does that sound to you?’
    Creed clenched his fist; oh yes, he was sorely tempted. But then the newspaper’s editor valued this creep’s services more than he did Creed’s. Paparazzi were ten-a-penny, even the good ones, whereas gossip columnists were rated on their high society and celebrity contacts; Blythe, fuck him, had the best. He