1

veryone on set is looking suspiciously gorgeous

this morning.
The catering bus is lling up quickly on our location
shoot near Kings Cross this morning, with crew
members already on their second (or third) bacon roll
of the morning, and actors and actresses sipping,
piously, at large mugs of tea and honey. All over the
bus, people are looking as if theyre off for a Big Night
Out. There are freshly blow-dried hairdos, newly faketanned legs, and more layers of mascara than you can
shake a stick at. Everybody looks stunning.
And then theres me.
Today is my rst day in my brand-new speaking role,
after months of being a random, silent extra.
Unfortunately, the role Im playing is Warty Alien. So
this morning Im wearing the most grotesque costume
youve ever seen in all your life.
I give it one last go with Frankie the Wardrobe
assistant as she passes by my table now, just to see if
there might have been some sort of mistake.
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Youre absolutely sure, I say, that Im down on your

list as Warty Alien? I mean, there couldnt have been a
spelling mistake? And it isnt meant to be . . . I dont
know . . . Party Alien?
See, that couldnt be too bad. Especially if I could
wear one of the alien costumes like my sister Cass
wears, in her starring role as one of the Cat People.
Theyre actually quite sexy skintight silvery bodysuit,
mysterious eye mask, high-heeled knee boots and
even if I had to accessorize it, as Party Alien, with, say,
a silly paper hat and a hula skirt, Id still look halfway
decent. Especially if I had to wear a hula skirt, in fact,
because it would hide whatever horrors the silvery
bodysuit would reveal in the bum region. Two birds,
one stone!
Sorry, Libby. Theres no spelling mistake. Anyway,
the parts not actually called Warty Alien, you know.
Youre down on my list as Frankie glances down at
the notepad she never lets more than two inches from
her sight Extra-Terrestrial Spaceship Technician.
(This basically means that Im playing an alien version
of a Kwik Fit mechanic, and explains why my one and
only line my Big Break! On National Television! is:
But xing the docking module could take days, Captain,
maybe even weeks. Look, I never said it was a good line.)
OK, then, I say, desperately, are you sure this is denitely the costume the Extra-Terrestrial Spaceship Technician
is supposed to wear?
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Well, youre more than welcome to query that with

the Obergruppenfhrer. Because if there had been any
kind of an error, it would be her mistake.
The Obergruppenfhrer, otherwise (just not very
often) known as Vanessa, is the production manager. Its
probably obvious, from her nickname, that shes not the
sort of person you want to accuse of making mistakes.
Particularly not when youre a lowly extra on a surprise
hit TV show, with literally thousands of out-of-work
actors ready to kill their own grandmothers to take your
job instead.
Anyway, I dont know why youre complaining,
Frankie adds, over her shoulder, as she sashays in impractical four-inch heels to the buss exit. In technical terms,
that costume is a work of art, you know.
I stare down at the vomit-green latex suit Ive been
sweating into since seven oclock this morning and pick
up the separate alien head thats sitting on the chair
beside me. The head features one particularly giant
pustule, right in between the eyes. It doesnt look like a
work of art.
God, Libby, is that your costume?
Its Cass, squeezing into the seat opposite me.
And I mean literally squeezing, because shes somehow managed to inate her already fulsome cleavage by
another couple of cup sizes, and given herself the biggest
blow-dry this side of Texas. Shes not changed into her
Cat Person costume yet, so the eye-popping cleavage is
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(barely) contained by a teeny pink hoodie with the zip

pulled scandalously low, and Im quite sure shes teamed
this, as she always does when shes all out to impress,
with either an equally teeny pair of denim cut-offs, or
a sassy towelling micro-skirt.
(Were half-sisters, by the way. Different dads. Even
though the irony is that actually, my dad is the better
looking out of the two: her dad, Michael, is a nicebut-nerdy geologist while my dad is as handsome
as he is an utter waste of good oxygen. Anyway, Cass
is quite denitively the better-looking out of us two:
blonde, blue-eyed and curvy while my hair and
eyes are from an uninspired palette of browns, my
bosom is very nearly non-existent, and the only reason
youd ever call me curvy is because I have a sturdy
bottom half thats seemingly impervious to all forms
of exercise.)
Yes, its my costume, I tell Cass, with as much dignity
as I can scrape together under the circumstances. Its a
technical work of art, as a matter of fact.
But Cass has already lost interest. So, do I look OK?
Do I look better than Melody? Do you think hes going
to notice me?
Melody is the lead actress on our (sci-, if you hadnt
already guessed) TV show, The Time Guardians.
The he that Cass is referring to is Dillon OHara, our
brand-new star. Whose rst day on set it is today and
who in case you were starting to wonder is the
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reason that everybody has turned up to work this

morning in their Saturday Night Best.
Im sure hell notice you, Cass. You look very eyecatching.
Youre sure? Because you do know, dont you, the kind
of girls Dillon normally goes out with? To back up her
point, Cass ries in her bag for this weeks copy of Grazia
magazine, puts it down on the table next to the script
I was given this morning, and jabs a manicured nger
at the front cover. Thats the competition.
Its a paparazzi shot of a blonde Victorias Secret model
I cant remember her name, but shes platinum blonde
and buxom, with legs roughly a mile high exiting a
nightclub with Mr OHara.
I hate myself for thinking it, given that the wretched
man is keeping an entire cast and crew waiting for him
on location this morning while he decides if he can be
bothered to show up or not. But hes annoyingly
gorgeous. If you happen to be a fan, that is, of ripped
torsos, muscular shoulders and angelic cheekbones. His
hair is sooty black, his eyes almost match, and hes stocky
and well muscled in a way that implies not so much a
life spent pumping iron while gazing into a gym mirror,
but long teenage summers spent working on building
sites. Shirtless, probably. Getting an all-over tan on that
ripped torso . . .
Rhea Haverstock-Harley, Cass spits, gazing at the
Victorias Secret model with loathing. You know she
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won Hottest Woman in the Stratosphere again in Made

Man magazines Hundred Hottest list this year?
Oh, well, now Cass has reminded me of the name, I do,
vaguely, know this. And I also recall that, in a (deliberate?
publicity-seeking?) echo of the whole Naomi-Campbellthrowing episode, this double-barrelled Rhea girl got in
pretty big trouble a few years ago for hitting her hairdresser
with her phone. Which, now that Ive remembered it, has
sort of put me off Dillon OHara a bit, even though I dont
think he was going out with her at the time.
Oh, Made Man, I scoff, with a practised air. (Cass
didnt make the top 100 in the most recent poll. Ive not
quite recovered, yet, from the sobbing 3 a.m. phone calls
I received from her last week, four nights in a row.) What
do they know? And anyway, theres more to life than
just being leered at in your bra by a bunch of drooling
pervs, you know.
Youre so right, Lib. Im going to show them all
tomorrow night, by the way.
(Tomorrow night is the Made Man party celebrating
their pathetic poll, and Cass is attending. She may not
be Top 100 material, but shes pert and blonde and on
TV, which is evidently quite enough for an invite.)
Thats the spirit, Cass! I undo one of my Warty Alien
gloves, reach across the table and pat her on the hand.
You show them all!
Thats why I bought the dress Im going to wear. Its
got a massively plunging neckline, and its totally sheer
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down the back, so you can sort of see my bum but

through the lace, so its really classy.
Cass, no, that isnt what I meant by show them all . . .
And Ill need you to alter that ruby pendant thingy.
Itll look amazing with the dress, but remember I said
Id prefer it longer, so the ruby bit dangles right down
into the top of my cleavage.
That ruby pendant thingy is actually a garnet necklace
I made for Casss twenty-fth birthday; painstakingly
crafted, to be more accurate, from a gorgeous garnet
cabochon (garnet being her birthstone) and a vintage
Swarovski-crystal teardrop charm, both hanging from a
gold-plated chain that I customized with teeny-tiny
garnet-coloured crystals at intervals along the length.
Pendant-making may only be a hobby, but I did put a
fair amount of work into this particular one, and the
chain was so expensive that I could only afford to make
it an eighteen-inch pendant (sitting elegantly against
Casss collarbones) rather than a twenty-four-inch one
(nestling brassily between her breasts).
I cant make it any longer, I tell her. I dont have a
replacement chain.
Well, bung the ruby bit on the end of a bit of
ribbon, or something, Cass says, airily unconcerned
about compromising the artistic integrity of my creation. I just need it to draw maximum attention to my
boobs.
I dont think youll need a necklace to do that.
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No, Libby. She looks very serious. I really have to

pull out all the stops if Im going to stand a chance up
against Rhea Haverstock-Harley.
Surely, I say, feeling a bit like whatshisname standing
in the sea, telling the tide to go back, you shouldnt
really be in hot pursuit of Dillon OHara anyway, Cass.
If he has a girlfriend, that is. Not to mention the fact
that you have a boyfriend of your own.
His name is David, apparently. I say apparently
because Cass hasnt introduced him to either me or Mum
yet. All I know about him is that hes a talent manager
for a big showbiz agency, so its perfectly possible that
hes covered from head to toe in huge warts, just like my
costume, but oozing real pus and Cass would still be
perfectly happy dating him.
David isnt my boyfriend. Were just seeing each other.
She emits a sigh of exasperation, as she always does
when I dont just happily spout whatever it is she wants
to hear. Youre no use, Cass. Im going to text a sele to
Mum, see if she thinks I should change into something
a bit sexier.
Christ, no, dont do that!
Im not yelping this because I fear that the only thing
a bit sexier than Casss plunging top and micro-shorts
is a thong bikini, and Im trying, as her big sister, to
protect her remaining modesty.
Im yelping this because if Cass texts Mum, Mum will
call right back. And after lengthy discussion of Casss
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outt options, shell nally ask to speak to me. And then

shell ask exactly what part Ive been given and what
my costume is like.
You see, my lack of enthusiasm for the Warty Alien
costume isnt down to the fact that I was secretly
thinking I might be the one to catch Dillon OHaras
eye if he ever makes it to the shoot this morning. I
mean, even if I wasnt perspiring in puke-coloured
latex, I dont think for a minute that hes going to stop
dead in his tracks, grab the nearest passing crew
member and whisper, By God, tell me the name of
that at-chested brunette with the pear-shaped bottom,
for until I have bedded her I shall go mad with lust!
Mad, I tell you.
The reason, in fact, is my mother.
The thing is that shes not only my mother, but also
my agent, and the one responsible for badgering The
Time Guardians casting director until the poor woman
eventually cracked and agreed to promote me against
my will, I might add from Extra to Bit-Parter. So its
not exactly ideal that the rst words I get to speak in
an acting role in the last ve years are going to be from
behind a vomit-green, wart-covered alien head, which
renders me not only revolting but also much more
importantly, from my mum/agents point of view
invisible.
Well, youre not being any help, Cass retorts, ignoring
my plea and starting to undertake her very favourite
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activity posing for seles with her mobile phone camera

while I decide that the best way to avoid Mum for a
bit longer is to leave Cass to it and go and nd myself
a bacon roll instead.
After all, I tell myself, as I lumber off the catering bus
in my Warty Alien feet, its not as if I need to worry
about tummy bloat while I swelter away inside my layers
of concealing latex, is it? And anyway, the bacon rolls are
exceptionally delicious, and made to order by lovely Olly
Walker, whos been one of my best friends ever since I
met him, donkeys years ago, at that godawful Sound of
Music audition in Wimbledon. He runs the on-location
catering van, so I can go and have a chat with him while
simultaneously waiting to be called by the assistant
director to deliver my line, and most important of all
avoiding my mother.

*
Olly is not currently at his catering van. He wasnt there
when I fetched my rst bacon roll before going to Wardrobe
at eight this morning either, so when I reach the head of
the queue, I ask his sous chef, Jesse, if hes all right.
Hasnt he called you? Jesse asks, squirting ketchup
onto three waiting rolls hes just nishing off for Liz,
the production assistant (pretty, blonde, and Dillonready in a crop top and skin-tight jeans, so I can only
assume the bacon rolls are actually for some hungry
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electricians or cameramen, or something, and not for

her to snarf down herself).
No. Well, he might have done. Ive left my phone in
my bag. I dont add: because, although Im twenty-nine
years old, Im still avoiding my mother.
Hes gone in his van to the studios. Mentioned something about doing a furniture run. First to Woking
and then to you and your new at?
This, really, should be making me a bit less stressed
about the whole Mum-and-my-Big-Break situation: the
fact that I dont have to go back to her house after work
this evening and have her harangue me about my career
over the kitchen table. Tonight, if she wants to harangue
me, she can do it over the phone while I relax at my
very own kitchen table in my very own at!
Its not much its really, really not much, just a tiny
one-bed above a parade of shops on Colliers Wood High
Street; Ive seen hip-hop producers downstairs loos, on
MTV Cribs, that are at least three times the size but
Im going to make it cosy, and homely, and lovely.
Of course, a slight barrier to this, up until a couple
of days ago, was that Ive managed to reach my ripe old
age without actually acquiring the basics you need to
make a at look cosy and homely.
I dont mean cashmere throws and Venetian glass
lamps and Victorian writing desks. I mean and this
is a bit embarrassing to admit a sofa, a table, and a
double bed.
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I was bemoaning this fact to Olly when he came

round to Mums in his van the night before last to
pick up my boxes full of clothes, books and other bits
and bobs, and thats when he told me about the
Pinewood props store. Pinewood Studios, which is
where the majority of The Time Guardians gets filmed,
is home to an enormous treasure trove (well, a giant
corrugated-steel warehouse) of old furniture thats
been used, over the years, to dress the sets of countless films and TV shows. Lots of it is pretty ropey,
some of it is surprisingly lovely, and none of it is
really used any more. Olly knows about this treasure
trove because his Uncle Brian not his actual uncle,
just an old friend of his former-actress mothers is
the security guard there. Oh, and because Ollys
former-actress mother, who now runs an amateur
dramatic society in Woking, is always getting him to
raid the props storeroom to bring her set dressing for
their productions. Anyway, on Ollys advice I popped
round there when we were shooting at Pinewood
yesterday, and managed to put aside a handful of
surprisingly lovely things to furnish my at.
I thought I was going to head back there tonight, with
Olly in his van, and pick up the stuff before heading all
the way back to Colliers Wood to collect my keys, but
obviously it must t Ollys schedule better to go to
Pinewood himself this morning.
Thanks, Jesse. Oh, and Ill have one just like those,
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please, I add, pointing at the row of bacon rolls hes

wrapping in greaseproof paper to hand over to Liz.
Youre kidding, Liz says. You cant seriously be
planning on eating a greasy bacon roll.
Which is a bit personal, isnt it? I mean, Liz and I
have chatted in the ladies loos at the studios before, but
thats about it. I wouldnt have thought we were anywhere
near friendly enough for her to
Vanessa, she says, in a hushed, reverential (OK, terried) tone, will literally kill you if she sees you eating so
much as a Polo mint while youre wearing that costume.
This costume? I ask, glancing down at my alien head,
because I cant believe a bit of dripped ketchup is going
to make the thing look that much worse.
Its one of the most expensive costumes we rent, she
says, rather piously, as if the money is coming out of
her personal bank account and leaving her unable to
pay her gas bill. If Vanessa nds out theres so much as
a single, solitary stain on that latex . . .
OK, forget the bacon roll, I tell Jesse. Ill just have a
coffee and a mufn.
A blueberry mufn? gasps Liz. Filled with sticky,
purple-staining berries?
Fine! Just the coffee, then.
Which is not going to hit the spot in any way. I mean,
I was up at 5 a.m. this morning, in Wardrobe at 7,
and Ive been sweating out vital calories inside this
horrible costume ever since.
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I think Ive got a half-eaten packet of peanut M&Ms

in my bag, though. I can go and retrieve it from where I
think I left it, back on the catering bus, and see if theres
a message on my phone from Olly at the same time.
The bloody costume slows me right down, though. I
dont know if youve ever tried walking anywhere while
wearing half a stones worth of baggy latex, but its not
the most enjoyable way to get about.
Honestly, on days like today, I seriously wonder what
the hell Im doing pursuing a career in acting. Though, to
be entirely fair to the Warty Alien costume, theres scarcely
a day goes by when that thought doesnt occur. Im only
stuck in the bloody job because of a childhood spent
following Cass from audition to audition, during which
time I utterly failed to gain any decent qualications or
other career ideas of my own.
Well, that and the fact that Ive always had a bit of a
xation with the movies, and Ive spent far too long
kidding myself that grunting about as a non-speaking
extra on iffy British TV shows is halfway to the Old
Hollywood magic Ive long been seduced by.
Far too long, because I dont think any of my
Hollywood heroines ever had to schlump around the
arse-end of Kings Cross in latex warts on a boiling June
morning . . .
Cheer up, a fellow alien says, passing me by on its
way out of the Wardrobe trailer nearby. It might never
happen.
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Easy for you to say. Youve lucked out. I mean this

because it he, I guess, from the voice inside his alien
head is nowhere near as grotesquely attired as I am.
His is more like a spacesuit: Guantanamo-orange
canvas with a matching orange plastic bubble helmet.
No latex, no warts, no problem. But thanks for the
moral support. Its nice when us extras stick together
for a change.
Youre welcome. I mean we have to, dont we, with
these arsehole lead actors swanning around the place?
I snort. When they can even be bothered to turn up,
of course.
Oh?
Were all waiting for his Lord Chief Arsehole to decide
whether were worthy of his time or not. Dillon OHara,
I mean, I add, for clarication of the Lord Chief
Arsehole bit.
Really? Because I heard he was only called for eleven
a.m. So in fact, if he turns up in the next half-hour or
so, hell actually be early.
Bollocks, I snort. Hes late because celebrities like
him love to be late. Its their favourite way of proving to
people what a big shot they are.
Be fair to the poor guy, the alien extra says. Maybe
he got stuck in trafc.
If theres anything at all he got stuck in, its more
likely to be some leggy supermodel.
And then I stop talking.
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Because the alien extra is taking off his helmet, and

it turns out that hes not an extra at all.
Its Dillon OHara.
That was fun, he says, a wide grin spreading over
his face. His accent is Irish now, instead of the English
one he I now realize has been putting on for the
last couple of minutes. I felt a bit like a prince in a fairy
tale. You know, the kind who disguises himself as a
peasant in order to mingle with the real peasants and
nd out what they truly think about him.
Im mortied.
But at the same time, I have to say, Im outraged.
Because not only has he just quite deliberately set me
up, hes also Im fairly sure just pretty much called
me a peasant.
I didnt mean to imply, he says, as if hes read my
mind, that I think youre a peasant.
I should bloody well hope not.
But then, to be fair to me, you did just call me now,
what was it? Lord Chief Arsehole.
That was different . . .
Thats true. It was behind my back, for one thing.
It wasnt behind your back!
Well, it wasnt to my face.
You set me up! You . . . entrapped me.
Oh, stop getting your knickers in a twist. If youre
wearing any knickers beneath that thing, he adds. I
mean, Jesus, these costumes are like a bloody sauna as
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they are, without adding extra layers beneath them,

arent they?
I would say something in reply Im not sure what,
exactly, because its not often that I get asked by
strange men if Im wearing any knickers, let alone
strange men like Dillon OHara who, now that I come
to notice it, is even better looking in real life than he
looked on the pages of Casss Grazia but Im stunned
into silence by the fact that hes starting to take his
clothes off.
Seriously: hes undoing the Velcro down the front of
his jumpsuit, peeling the fabric off his shoulders and
down to his waist and then oh, dear God pulling
his T-shirt up and over his head to reveal the most
perfect torso Ive ever seen in my entire life.
Im not exaggerating: his shoulders are wide and
packed tight with lean muscle, he has a smooth, rockhard chest, and an actual, proper six-pack where most
men my horrible ex-boyfriend Daniel, for example
sport varying sizes of beer gut.
Ahhhhh. He lets out a sigh of satisfaction. Thats
better. They told me, the nice Wardrobe girls, that Id be
more comfortable if I took my T-shirt off, but I got all
shy. He grins at me, in an extremely not-shy sort of way.
I assumed they were just after my body.
I cant tell, dazzled as I still am by the ridiculous
perfection of the body in front of me, whether his cheeky
arrogance is attractive or annoying.
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I think, probably, its fty-fty.

For now, anyway, I need to concentrate on not staring
while Dillon swivels round and takes something out of
the back pocket of his jeans.
Its an open packet of Benson & Hedges, from which
hes pulling a cigarette.
No! I yelp, and then, because he looks rather startled,
I explain: I mean, you cant. Vanessa will have your guts
for garters if you light up in costume.
Vanessa . . . Vanessa . . . oh, you mean the scary
production lady?
Its reassuring to realize that Dillon is as scared of
Vanessa as the rest of us.
Yes.
But Im the big star, right? I should be allowed to do
whatever I want, whenever I want?
I think hes joking . . .
Or, he adds, with another of those grins, I could just
nip round the back of this catering bus and have a
sneaky smoke where Vanessa wont catch me. Might be
safest all round, hey?
I think that would probably be best.
Join me?
Huh?
Join me? In a cigarette?
Oh . . . I dont smoke.
The moment the words leave my lips, I regret saying
them.
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I mean, I dont have to go all ga-ga over the man to

be able to admit Dillons attractions. And yet here Ive
just turned down the opportunity to continue this little
chat while he remains, I should point out, completely
shirtless just because I dont actually smoke cigarettes.
Which is nuts, because its not like Ive never smoked.
I used to. Admittedly only when I was drunk, and not
since I was about nineteen, when I went on a trip to
Paris with Olly and smoked so many overpowering
French cigarettes that it put me off for life.
But is this sort of hair-splitting worth missing out
on another few minutes in Dillons company, when hes
never likely to exchange another word with me again?
What I mean to say is that I try not to smoke.
Oh, well, if youve given up, then all credit to you
No, no, I havent given up! Ive failed completely at
it! Love smoking. Love it to death. Literally to death,
probably, the amount I smoke!
Then be my guest. He hands me the cigarette hes
holding, takes another for himself and then reaches into
his back pocket again for a lighter.
So youre one of the extras, right? he asks, icking
the lighter on and holding it out towards me.
Mnnh-hnngh. This is because Ive got the cigarette
in my mouth. Ive sort of been promoted, though, I add,
once the end is lit. I mean, Ive got my rst line to speak
today. Its not exactly a proper part, and obviously I get
to wear the ugliest costume on set, but . . .
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Oh, I dont know. Ive seen worse. He takes an expert

puff on his own cigarette, blowing the smoke in the
opposite direction from me (which is courteous of him,
seeing as Im technically smoking too; I just havent
risked actually inhaling yet in case I cough and sputter,
unattractively, all over him). Ive an ex or two that looked
a bit like that, he nods at the alien head Im clutching
in my hand without their slap on.
This is unlikely. But I appreciate his generosity.
Anyway, if youre one of the extras, you probably
know a thing or two about the way things work around
here.
Work?
Yeah, every show Ive ever worked on, the extras are
always the ones who know how it all works. Whos the
biggest diva. Whos got the biggest coke problem. Whos
getting it on in the props storeroom. I mean, theres
always somebody getting it on in the props storeroom,
isnt there?
Given that Im about to furnish my entire at from
the props storeroom, I can only hope that hes joking
about this.
So? he asks. Dish the dirt! Tell me who to avoid,
who to cultivate, who Im going to get a stonking great
crush on . . .
Dont you have a girlfriend? I suddenly blurt.
No, Im not sure whats wrong with me, either.
His black eyes narrow. Thats a very personal question.
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Sorry, I only asked because . . . well, I read things in

Grazia, obviously . . . not that I read a lot of celebrity
gossip! Only when Im in the waiting room at the dentist,
or something. Hardly ever.
You hardly ever go to the dentist?
No! I mean, yes! I go loads! I say, continuing my
apparent quest to make him think I have poor dental
management and stinky cheese-breath. Well, not loads
. . . a normal amount, Id say . . . Actually, its my sister
Cass who reads all the gossip magazines
Then tell the silly cow not to believe everything she
reads in them.
Hey! I dont care how gorgeous he is, standing here
with his bare chest, and chivalrously blowing smoke
away from me. Thats my sister youre talking about.
Sorry. He looks, and sounds, instantly contrite. But
then he is an actor, I suppose. Still, he repeats it. Sorry.
That was unforgivably rude of me.
It was, a bit.
Its just that the girlfriend thing . . . its private, you
know?
Yes. Of course. I shouldnt have mentioned it.
Ah, youre all right . . . Sorry, Ive just realized I dont
know your name.
Libby. Libby Lomax.
Well, youre all right, Libby, Libby Lomax. Ill forgive
you for calling me an arsehole. And for lying to me about
being a smoker.
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Damn it; Ive let the bloody thing practically burn

itself out in my hand.
I am a smoker! I just forgot I had one, I say, popping
the cigarette back into my mouth and hoping I can look
one-tenth as sexy as him when I take a drag on it . . .
Dillon!
Shit. Its Vanessa, coming out of Wardrobe and walking
towards us.
If she catches me smoking a cigarette, Ill be off this
location shoot in even less time than it would take Dillon
to talk Cass into bed with him.
Instinctively, I do the rst thing that springs to mind,
which is to pull on the head Ive got squashed under
my arm.
Its a nanosecond later that I realize I still have the
cigarette between my lips.
But its OK! Its OK, because all I have to do is walk
past Vanessa and go, as fast as I can, round the other
side of the catering bus, where I can pull my head off
and take the cigarette out.
Or at least, I could, if she werent blocking my way
with her arms folded and a scowl on her face.
Libby, she hisses, none too quietly, what the fuck are
you bothering Dillon for?
She wasnt bothering me, Vanessa, dont stress about
it. Dillon taps me on the shoulder from behind, and
when I wheel round unsteadily hes holding out one of
my latex gloves. You dropped this.
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Thank you, I mumble, snatching the glove and

making to turn away again. But he stops me.
Youre smoking, he says.
Traitor! Hes sold me out, and right in front of
Vanessa, too.
I mean, youre really smoking, Libby.
Hes staring into my eyes, through the pin-holes in
my Warty Alien head, with such intensity that I cant
help but think . . . Is he saying he fancies me? I mean,
nobodys ever called me smoking before, and certainly
not someone as smoking-hot himself as Dillon is, but
I suppose weirder things have happened
For fucks sake! Vanessa ruins the moment by
screaming, at Obergruppenfhrer volume, from behind
me. Her fucking heads on re!
At the very same time as she screams this, I inhale an
extremely unpleasant smell that can only be burning
latex.
OK, so I know the Thing To Do in a re is to stay
cool, calm and collected. I know the worst thing you
can do is to panic, because you just start to drag other
people under with you . . .
Oh, hang on a minute, thats drowning.
In a head-on-re scenario, panic, I suspect, is perfectly
acceptable.
Shit! I almost out-scream Vanessa, pulling at my head
in a wild frenzy. But it isnt coming off! It isnt coming
off! Get it off, get it off, get it off me!
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For fucks sake! Vanessa is yelling, again, as she

stampedes away from us toward the catering bus door.
We need the fucking re extinguisher!
Theres no time for that. I hear Dillons voice, and
then feel his hand grab my wrists to stop me ineffectually
yanking at my head. Stop, he orders, and keep still.
Then he grips the alien head, pulls it clear of my
actual head, and throws the smouldering latex down
onto the ground.
And then everything goes black.
I havent fainted, by the way. I think Dillons just thrown
his T-shirt over me to put out any lingering sparks.
Theres a brief, stunned silence.
You all right under there? Dillon asks, a moment
later.
I open my mouth to say Just about when Im hit,
smack in the middle of the face, with a powerful jet of
very cold liquid.
I gasp, which draws a large portion of sodden T-shirt
into my mouth. I gag, splutter, and double over.
Fucking hell! I hear Dillon say, from my position
near his groin. It was under control. You didnt need to
blast the poor girl with the re extinguisher!
Ah, so it was very cold foam, then. Just in case I didnt
look like enough of an idiot with a wet T-shirt over my
head . . . no, it has to be a foam-covered T-shirt instead.
But Vanessa clearly isnt in any kind of mood for
sympathy.
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Libby! What the fuck are you playing at?

Hey, leave her alone. I feel a hand on my shoulder,
pulling me upright. Let me get that off you, Dillon
says, pulling at the T-shirt.
Im ne! Might be better to leave it on for a bit longer,
actually! Like, until the end of time. Or at least until
Ive regained my composure, and until everyone on the
catering bus whom I can now hear leaning out of the
windows, asking each other whats been going on, and
having a good old chortle when they hear the answer
has gone home and, ideally, sixty or seventy years
down the line, died, without me having to face them
again. I grip onto the T-shirt at neck level. Better not
to . . . you know . . . expose burnt skin to the air.
Shit, did your skin burn? Dillon rips the T-shirt off
my head in one smooth movement; hes obviously a man
accustomed to removing items of clothing from women.
Oh, dont worry, youre all right. Its only your hair.
Only my hair what?
Thats been burnt off.
My hairs been burnt off?
God, no, no, no.
I feel weak with relief, until he goes on.
I mean, not all of it. Only most of the right side.
Unless . . . He studies me for a moment. Im sorry,
maybe I just didnt notice. Did you have a lopsided
haircut when I was talking to you ve minutes ago?
No! I yelp, clutching the side of my head. Im horried
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to feel short, crispy, burnt bits where there used to be, if

not exactly locks worthy of a Victorias Secret Angel, at
least a perfectly decent amount of hair.
Oh, for fucks sake, Libby, its only fucking hair.
Vanessa is snapping her ngers at one of the crew
members leaning out of the bus window to come and
take the re extinguisher from her. Itll grow back. Unlike
the chunk youve burnt out of that costume!
Im really sorry, Vanessa. It was an accident.
Yeah, it was an accident. Dillon backs me up. I mean,
nobody would intentionally set light to themselves like
that. Unless they were a Buddhist monk, or something.
Which youre not, are you?
Before I can answer, theres a collective wheeze of mirth
from the watching crew members, and one of them starts
up oh, so hilariously a chant of Om.
Ah, give her a break, guys. Dillon grins up at them
and pats me on the shoulder. His hand stays there. I dont
breathe in case this alerts him and he decides to move it.
Poor girls had a nasty shock. You know, one of you
baboons could make yourselves useful and get her a nice
cup of sweet tea, instead of standing there taking the . . .
His eyes suddenly icker sideways.
Which is hardly surprising, given that my sister has
just teetered into view.
Lord only knows what Mum texted her after seeing
the sele, but Cass has ramped up the sexiness by
roughly one hundred degrees centigrade. Shes changed
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into her Cat Person costume, for the show, but with a
few little tweaks that only a certiable man-eater like
Cass is truly capable of. Shes unzipped the front of the
skintight jumpsuit down to a near-pornographic level,
replaced the regulation black Dr Martens with and I
can only assume she either brought these with her this
morning, or borrowed them from a streetwalker a little
closer to Kings Cross a thigh-high pair of stilettoheeled boots, and coated her mouth in what is surely
the entire contents of a tube of Nars Striptease lip gloss.
Part of me wants to applaud her for such brazen,
no-holds-barred chutzpah.
A much larger part of me wants to rip off her thigh
boots and beat her over the head with them.
Because Dillons hand has just dropped off my
shoulder. And Ive just dropped off his radar.
Oh, my God! Cass squeals, clasping her hands to her
mouth and doing a pretty decent performance of
Distraught Woman. Libby! My darling sister! What
happened?
Your darling sister set re to her fucking head,
Vanessa snaps. Costing me six hundred quid for a
replacement costume in the process.
Oh, my God! Cass says, again. (Her performance
might be decent, but the script has its limits.) And your
hair, Libby! What have you done to your beautiful,
beautiful hair!
Which would be a nice thing for her to have said, if
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it werent for the fact that I suspect its just a vehicle for
her next trick, which is to break down in melodramatic
sobs and clutch a hand to her (ballooning) chest, as if
shes about to swoon.
Woah, there! Dillon slips an arm around her waist.
Lets go and get you a hot, sweet cup of tea.
The same hot, sweet cup of tea that he promised me
a moment ago. And which, I cant help but notice, the
entire leering gang of crew members is practically leapfrogging each other off the bus to fetch for her.
Im sorry! Cass gulps. Its just such a terrible shock . . .
Oh, for crying out loud, Vanessa mutters, which actually makes me feel quite fond of her all of a sudden.
Of course it is, sweetheart, Dillon is saying, in a
melted-dark-chocolate tone quite unlike the one he was
using while he was chatting to me. You just need that
tea, and a nice sit-down . . .
I do, Cass replies, dabbing prettily at dry cheeks. I
do need a lie-down.
You have to give it to her (and Dillon, no doubt, will
do exactly that), shes good at this stuff. The Damsel in
Distress act (when Im the only one round here whos
got any reason to be in distress); the subtle hint that
shed rather be lying down than sitting . . .
Im Dillon, by the way, Dillon is murmuring, putting
a hand in the small of her back and steering her in the
direction of the leap-frogging crew members on their
way to Ollys catering truck.
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And Im Cassidy . . .
Vanessa and I watch them go, united for once in
irritation.
Your fucking sister, says Vanessa.
To agree would be disloyal; to disagree would be rank
hypocrisy. So I dont say anything.
Youre all right? she asks, gesturing at my burnt hair.
Not actually injured or anything?
No, Im OK. Im touched that shes concerned. But
thanks, Vanessa, and Im really sorry again about
Good, she says, briskly. Then I dont need to get the
rst-aid guys over before you leave.
Leave?
The shoot. The show, in fact.
I stare at her. Youre . . . ring me?
Well, of course I fucking well am. Youre lucky Im
not also charging you for the costume youve just
wrecked.
But I . . . this was meant to be my big . . . I mean, I
need the money for my rent . . . And my mother is going
to . . .
None of that is my problem. She turns on her heel.
Sorry, Libby, she adds, in a at tone of no regret
whatsoever. But can you please just return the costume
to Wardrobe and get off my set?
Theres absolutely no point in arguing. All I can do
now is do as she says and get out of here while I still
have my dignity.
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OK, while I still have a shred of dignity.

OK, before I annoy her any more and she decides to
charge me six hundred quid into the bargain. Because,
in all honesty, I think my dignity has pretty much gone
the way of my hair. Along with the ability to pay the
rent on my at, and the long-awaited approval of my
mother.
Still, at least the Om-chanting crew are no longer
around to witness my walk of shame. I suppose I have
to be grateful for small mercies.

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