various of the commissioning editors and development execs ranged round Rod. “The rest – the ones with less clothes on – you won’t have heard of.”
“No?”
“Not yet. They’re his latest signings. That’s why they’re 12, and crouching at his feet. Rod will put them up for a few screen-tests, and see how they do. If they’re lucky, they might land an ITV2 presenting gig.”
“If not?”
Tess considered the beautiful youngsters hanging over Rod’s lap. “The Adult Channel maybe?” she said. “Or Nick Junior?”
“This one here is Carly.” Shouting over the din, Rod shoved a dimpling blonde at a BBC commissioning editor. “Lovely in’t she? Natural energy. Joomp up and down, Carly, show him yer CBeebies. Dean now, he’s more Factual.” He prodded at a muscular young man with bleached hair and few clothes. “Take off yer top, Dean, will yer? Stretch a bit, that’s right. Now give us the weather.”
Tess looked away. She would be a part of it. (Plus she was starting to think she may have snogged Dean, a few months ago, round the back of Leicester Square). “You’re not the only one working here tonight,” she turned to Selleck. “Sandy Plimpton is exploiting Jeenie’s murder to bump up her ratings. Rod Peacock’s using it as shameless stunt to promote his surviving clients.”
She’d spoken too soon, however, and too loudly. A skinny, pinch-faced brunette was leaving her place by Rod’s side, and heading their way.
Cleo Ashanti was Rod’s personal assistant. A former catwalk model, she’d developed simultaneously a deep loathing for humanity and the ability to gush all over it. “Tess, darling, so good to see you – and so
much
of you at that!” Kissing the air somewhere to the left of Tess’ head, she ran a critical eye over her funeral clothes. (Never one for prolonged considerations as to dress, Tess had stomped around her bedroom this morning, cursing and spilling coffee, before plunging into her ‘capsule wardrobe’ aka ‘pile on floor’. She’d come up with black leather knee-boots, black leather mini-skirt and a too-tight, purple ruffle shirt. She’d bought the boots from a charity shop, the skirt from Camden Market, and the too-tight ruffle shirt… Christ knows. From the smell of rum and dope increasingly coming off its ruffles, however, Tess was starting to suspect it had been abandoned by some pigeon-chested pull… the kind she tended to eject from her flat before he could, strictly-speaking, get dressed again).
“Bit
minimal
for mourning, isn’t it?” said Cleo. “Not that your handsome friend here is complaining, I’m sure.” One look from Cleo, however, and Selleck was backing away to the bar, mumbling something about a mineral water. “He’s a cut above your usual escort.”
“He’s a policeman,” said Tess, and watched her mean, feline eyes widen with fear. Welsh Di had told Tess all about Cleo Ashanti’s modelling days – the trips to Paris, the parties in New York, the heroin addiction. (“She only took it to keep the weight off, mind.
Toppling
off them catwalks by the end, she was; had lawyers fighting to keep her outta court. She’s better now though, I think – just has a puke like the rest of them.”)
Cleo didn’t strike Tess as a leopard who’d much-changed her spots, however. (She didn’t care what Welsh Di said, that skinny
couldn’t
be legit). “DS Selleck was just saying he wanted a word with you,” she told Cleo. “I’ve got your back though, don’t you worry. I’ll tell him you had to take off – you’re needed at AA – just answer me one question, yeh?”
But Cleo was already giving her the bony shoulder. “Ask me what you like,” she said. “The answer’s
fuck right off.
” Turning, however, she collided with a waiter. He was weaving through the throng with a tray of exotic Thai nibbles.
Tess grabbed her chance – and a handful of prawn crackers. “Answer a couple of civil questions.” She raised her
“No?”
“Not yet. They’re his latest signings. That’s why they’re 12, and crouching at his feet. Rod will put them up for a few screen-tests, and see how they do. If they’re lucky, they might land an ITV2 presenting gig.”
“If not?”
Tess considered the beautiful youngsters hanging over Rod’s lap. “The Adult Channel maybe?” she said. “Or Nick Junior?”
“This one here is Carly.” Shouting over the din, Rod shoved a dimpling blonde at a BBC commissioning editor. “Lovely in’t she? Natural energy. Joomp up and down, Carly, show him yer CBeebies. Dean now, he’s more Factual.” He prodded at a muscular young man with bleached hair and few clothes. “Take off yer top, Dean, will yer? Stretch a bit, that’s right. Now give us the weather.”
Tess looked away. She would be a part of it. (Plus she was starting to think she may have snogged Dean, a few months ago, round the back of Leicester Square). “You’re not the only one working here tonight,” she turned to Selleck. “Sandy Plimpton is exploiting Jeenie’s murder to bump up her ratings. Rod Peacock’s using it as shameless stunt to promote his surviving clients.”
She’d spoken too soon, however, and too loudly. A skinny, pinch-faced brunette was leaving her place by Rod’s side, and heading their way.
Cleo Ashanti was Rod’s personal assistant. A former catwalk model, she’d developed simultaneously a deep loathing for humanity and the ability to gush all over it. “Tess, darling, so good to see you – and so
much
of you at that!” Kissing the air somewhere to the left of Tess’ head, she ran a critical eye over her funeral clothes. (Never one for prolonged considerations as to dress, Tess had stomped around her bedroom this morning, cursing and spilling coffee, before plunging into her ‘capsule wardrobe’ aka ‘pile on floor’. She’d come up with black leather knee-boots, black leather mini-skirt and a too-tight, purple ruffle shirt. She’d bought the boots from a charity shop, the skirt from Camden Market, and the too-tight ruffle shirt… Christ knows. From the smell of rum and dope increasingly coming off its ruffles, however, Tess was starting to suspect it had been abandoned by some pigeon-chested pull… the kind she tended to eject from her flat before he could, strictly-speaking, get dressed again).
“Bit
minimal
for mourning, isn’t it?” said Cleo. “Not that your handsome friend here is complaining, I’m sure.” One look from Cleo, however, and Selleck was backing away to the bar, mumbling something about a mineral water. “He’s a cut above your usual escort.”
“He’s a policeman,” said Tess, and watched her mean, feline eyes widen with fear. Welsh Di had told Tess all about Cleo Ashanti’s modelling days – the trips to Paris, the parties in New York, the heroin addiction. (“She only took it to keep the weight off, mind.
Toppling
off them catwalks by the end, she was; had lawyers fighting to keep her outta court. She’s better now though, I think – just has a puke like the rest of them.”)
Cleo didn’t strike Tess as a leopard who’d much-changed her spots, however. (She didn’t care what Welsh Di said, that skinny
couldn’t
be legit). “DS Selleck was just saying he wanted a word with you,” she told Cleo. “I’ve got your back though, don’t you worry. I’ll tell him you had to take off – you’re needed at AA – just answer me one question, yeh?”
But Cleo was already giving her the bony shoulder. “Ask me what you like,” she said. “The answer’s
fuck right off.
” Turning, however, she collided with a waiter. He was weaving through the throng with a tray of exotic Thai nibbles.
Tess grabbed her chance – and a handful of prawn crackers. “Answer a couple of civil questions.” She raised her
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