towards the end. We may never know where she hid her jewellery or what she spent all that money on.’
While Babs was gasping like a landlocked fish at that sheer audacity, Becky happened to mention that the press might be quite interested to know that a large standing order on Jemima’s account was paid to Babs every month. ‘Though it’s not like you’ve been busy finding her work. And Jemima was beloved of so many that I think people might get quite cross if they thought that she was being taken advantage of by her niece, who also happened to be her agent.’
‘Or by the common little tart that’s been living off Jemima for the last four years,’ Babs countered, and Becky was old enough and big enough now that when Babs’ hand crept up to take hold of her cheek in a bruising grip, she knocked her hand away.
‘I’m not a common little tart,’ she corrected. ‘I’m a poor little orphan devoted to Jemima. The granddaughter she never had, that’s what Reverend Squills used to say when he invited us over for Sunday lunch. Towards the end, you see, Jemima found God …’
Babs Pinkerton snorted in derision at such a notion.
‘… Anyway, we were quite regular churchgoers so I’m sure the Reverend would be happy to defend me. He’s got quite a taste for publicity. It’s hard to keep him out of the local paper banging on about the gangs of feckless youths hanging about on the seafront. I can’t even imagine his reaction if the nationals started sniffing about …’
‘What do you want?’ Babs had asked thinly.
A modest sum from the eventual sale of the bungalow, the right to keep any mementos – for instance, any jewellery that Becky might just happen to find when she was clearing out the bungalow – and some insurance against the future.
‘I’ve been stagnating in Southbourne for the last four years, so what now?’ she demanded of Babs who’d taken command of Jemima’s favourite easy chair and a very large gin, easy on the tonic. ‘I don’t have a qualification to my name and I can’t really see the point of toiling away at evening classes just so I can end up working in a call centre.’
Barbara had raised one over-plucked eyebrow. ‘The world needs people to work in call centres. Natural selection and all that.’
‘We can do better than a call centre. These …’ Becky gestured at her breasts, ‘her famous frontal development’, as they were described by the good Reverend, who wasn’t as godly as his venerated status suggested. Not when he was chasing Becky around the vestry with an avaricious gleam in his eyes. ‘And this …’ she pointed at her pretty face, her slanting green eyes and defined cheekbones giving her an almost feline, feral look, ‘and this …’ she tapped her head, ‘would be wasted on people wanting to change their internet service provider. You have contacts and connections. You can make me famous!’
Although Becky couldn’t sing or dance, her dramatic talents clearly weren’t in any doubt. If Babs could turn the girl into a meal ticket rather than a thorn in her side and collect her 20 per cent commission, then it would be win/win. Babs knew a producer at a production company who owed her a rather large favour and so eight weeks ago, Becky had entered the Big Brother house.
‘The rest is up to you,’ Babs had said.
Now, Babs placed a consoling, pink-taloned hand on Becky’s arm. ‘Even though technically you’re a loser, there’s still some serious money to be made before your meter runs out,’ she said. ‘We have a golden window right now. I’d make the most of all those personal-appearance fees to press the flesh at suburban nightclubs. Then we can get you at least ten thousand to appear in one of the Sunday tabs in your undies to spin some sob story about your dear departed ma and pa. We might even be able to bag you a footballer. Not Premier League but definitely First Division.’
What was that unpleasant sound in Becky’s ear? Ah yes, the bottom of the barrel being scraped.
‘I didn’t spend eight weeks locked in a house with a bunch of vacuous morons to get my tits out for the Sunday People and then disappear. Have you any idea what I’ve been through, Babs? There were times when I had to lock myself in the toilet and bite my hand towel to stop myself from screaming.’
‘They were a particularly sorry bunch this year.’ Babs’ eyes narrowed. ‘But if you were to get your knockers out, I could probably get you a few more thousand.’
There was a commotion at the other end of the bar as the more worthy, though far less deserving winner, entered the room. Amelia was with her mother and father, both of them tall and rangy, fair of hair and face. Amelia had told Becky that her father managed a hedge fund, and that her mother was the daughter of a man who’d made his fortune in plumbing supplies. Rich enough that home was a six-bedroom townhouse in Kensington and a pretty, ivy-strewn manor house in Oxfordshire. Rich enough that Mr and Mrs Sedley both had a set expression as if they were clenching their jaws and trying not to breathe in the smell of fried food, air freshener and cheap white wine that permeated the bar of the Elstree hotel.
There was no sign of Amelia’s Eton-educated brother who did something lucrative with energy drinks but there were a man and woman bringing up the rear, the man clamped to his mobile phone, the woman clamped to two mobile phones. It was clear that Amelia’s agent and publicist were cut from a very different cloth to Babs Pinkerton.
‘I don’t just want “a few more thousand”. I want more,’ Becky said to Babs Pinkerton, as she caught Amelia’s eye. The other girl smiled, waved enthusiastically and beckoned Becky over: but she wasn’t going to hurry to Amelia, like an obedient little pet dog.
‘More what? More money? Your boobs aren’t that great, Becky,’ Babs said witheringly. ‘And don’t start thinking that another agent will get you more cash – they won’t. They’d tell you the exact same thing and anyway, you signed an exclusive contract with me.’
That was a lesson learned the hard way: never sign anything. And no, it wasn’t just more money. Or more time in the spotlight.
It was more everything.
Amelia detached herself from the adoring throng that had congregated around her and hurried over to the corner where Becky and Babs were still in their unhappy huddle, followed by her anxious-looking Mama and publicist.
‘Becky!’ Amelia seized her hands and hauled her up. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet Mummy! I know you two are going to be best friends.’
From the pained and furrowed brow of Mrs Sedley, Becky very much doubted it. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Mrs Sedley,’ she said politely and as Mrs Sedley unwillingly leaned forward a scant five degrees for an air kiss, Becky held out her hand instead, to the other woman’s evident surprise and gratitude.
Then Becky made sure the handshake was brisk, firm but not too firm.
‘Rebecca, congratulations on doing so well in the house,’ Mrs Sedley said tightly.
‘I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in there without Emmy,’ Becky said, resting her head on Amelia’s shoulder. ‘She was an absolute lifesaver.’
‘I think you have that the wrong way round,’ Amelia said, putting her arm round Becky’s waist. ‘Come and sit with us.’
‘No, you must have so many people wanting to talk to you, I don’t want to intrude,’ Becky said, as she heard another one of Barbara Pinkerton’s snorts from behind her as her erstwhile mentor levered herself off the banquette.
‘When you’ve stopped having notions, you know where to find me,’ Babs muttered as she pushed past Becky who was giving her full attention to Amelia and Mrs Sedley, so that even in the muted lighting of the bar, they’d be able to see the slightly forlorn expression on her face before she gave them a brilliant smile that drooped ever so slightly at the edges.
‘Honestly, Emmy, after eight weeks you must be sick to death of me,’ Becky said with a self-deprecating little laugh. ‘I know how close you are to your mother, how much you must have