‘What about Corrie?’
‘Corrie’s all about the kids these days,’ he said. ‘Buff studs and sunbed tans and cleavages. They’re chasing the younger market.’
‘The younger market isn’t inside watching TV,’ said Carolyn. ‘They’re either on the internet or outside getting drunk. Or high.’ She shook her head. ‘What happened to our industry, Peter? It used to be about the work. And the stories.’
‘Those days are gone,’ said Peter. ‘Now it’s about murder and rape and incest. And they want young, they really do.’
‘I’m forty four, Peter. Since when has that been old? Look at Ian McKellen. He did Corrie and he was what, seventy? Look at Bill Roach, still going strong in his eighties.’
‘You know it’s unfair, I know it’s unfair, but nothing is going to change the way it works. Women get older and men mature.’
‘You’d think with so many women in top jobs at the BBC and ITV that would change.’
‘The women are the worst,’ said Peter. ‘Way bitchier than the men.’
‘I think it’s Sally and Lisa who are trying to stitch me up,’ said Carolyn. ‘They’ve never liked me.’
‘Jealousy,’ said Peter. ‘You’re everything they want to be.’
‘Nice of you to say so, Peter. But that doesn’t help me. Look, if the worst comes to the worst and I have to leave the show, what are my options?’
Peter sipped soup from his spoon, giving himself time to think. ‘You’re still a hot commodity,’ he said eventually. ‘I can get you as many after-dinner speaking gigs as you can handle at between two and five grand a go.’
‘Oh come on, Peter.’
‘Don’t knock it. You could make a hundred grand a year from a few hours a week talking to businessmen and the like. And we turn down most of the personal appearances you’re offered because you’re in the studio all day. I could get you two or three supermarket openings a week, grand or two a go. There’s promotional videos, there’s commercials, you’re one of the best known faces in the country. Then there’s panto.’
‘Panto?’
‘A month’s work once a year and you could be looking at fifty grand. More, if we can get you a London gig.’
‘Playing what, Peter? The Wicked Witch? The Evil Stepmother?’
‘I was thinking more Peter Pan. Principal Boy. Cinderella, maybe. Don’t turn your nose up at panto, some actors live the whole year on what they earn in December.’
‘I want to work in television, Peter. Or film. I want to act.’
‘I could probably get you on Countdown. And Have I Got News For You. Might be able to push you for Loose Women.’
‘That’s not acting, Peter. I’m an actress, not a TV personality.’
‘You can make the transition,’ he said. ‘Look at Ulrika Jonsson on Shooting Stars. That really raised her profile.’
‘A panel game? Be serious, Peter. What about film? Could you put me up for roles?’
‘I could, yes,’ he said. ‘But the age thing is the bugbear.’
Carolyn’s eyes narrowed. ‘The age thing?’
‘You’re at the awkward age. You know you are. You’re too old for the sex kitten roles and you’re not old enough for the character roles. If you were thirty I’d be putting you for every film that’s being greenlit, if you were over sixty you’d be spoilt for choice. But forty-five…’ He shrugged. ‘It’s a tough sell, I won’t lie to you. Look at Sharon Stone. The work just dried up. It always does.’
‘Forty four, Peter. I’m forty four.’ Carolyn took a sip of wine, then gulped down half of her glass. ‘So my options aren’t great, that’s what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying if you want to work in television, you’ve pretty much got the best job going. My advice to you would be to do whatever is necessary to safeguard what you have.’ He put down his spoon. ‘You’re worried they’re going to write you out? Is that it? Because that won’t happen.’
‘You don’t know that, Peter.’
‘I know we have a contract that has four more months to run. So they’re hardly going to stop using you. That wouldn’t make any financial sense.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘There’s no “suppose” about it. Your contract is rock solid. They have to pay you whether or not they use you so, of course, they’ll use you. And four months is a long time in TV Land. Half the suits on the show will have moved on by then.’
‘They could reduce my role.’
‘Again, why would they? They pay the same whether you’re on screen for twenty minutes or twenty seconds. And, again, four months is a long time. Even if they did, the viewers would howl and they’d go back to the status quo.’ He picked up his spoon again. ‘You’re worrying about nothing,’ he said. He smiled confidently. ‘Trust me.’
CHAPTER 27
A portly man in a flat cap waddled over to one of the trucks in the car park, holding a Thermos flask and a pale blue Tupperware container. ‘That’s him,’ said Halpin. ‘Reg McKenzie.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Richards. They were both sitting in the Bentley, across the road from the trucking firm. There were five trucks parked a short distance away from a Portakabin that served as the transport company’s office.
‘The drivers always have the same trucks,’ said Halpin.
Richards opened the door. ‘Come on then,’ he said.
‘We’re going to do it here?’
‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Richards.
Halpin got out of the car and the two men walked through the metal gates and into the car park. ‘Mr McKenzie!’ called Richards. ‘We’d like a word, please.’
McKenzie had been about to climb into the cab of his truck but he stopped and dropped back to the ground. He frowned at the two men, holding his Thermos and sandwiches to his chest.
‘Not D.O.T are you?’ asked McKenzie. ‘I keep getting the tachograph checked, it’s not my bloody fault.’
‘We’re not Department of Transport, we just want a chat about the woman you picked up on Friday night.’
‘Bloody hell, she was in the middle of nowhere, I could hardly leave her there could I? You’ve not told the boss have you?’
‘No need to bother your boss with this, Reg. No need to bother anyone.’
McKenzie frowned and squinted at the two men. ‘What is this? Who are you?’
‘We just need to know who she was, that’s all.’
‘What’s it to you?’
Halpin stepped forward menacingly but Richards held up his hand. ‘It’s all right, Mick, Reg just wants to know where he stands and that’s fair enough. Why did she say she was out in the middle of nowhere, Reg?’
‘Her car broke down, that’s what she said.’
‘Well now, you see, Reg, that’s not strictly speaking the truth. She hit my car, that’s what happened. Damn near wrote it off. I’d parked outside a mate’s house and she ran into the back of it. Buggered up both cars. She must have legged it and flagged you down.’
McKenzie nodded slowly. ‘That makes sense,’ he said. ‘She’d been drinking, that much I know.’
‘And no shoes, did you notice that?’
McKenzie laughed. ‘Yeah, that was funny. So she smashed your motor, did she?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why not just call the cops? They’ll trace her.’
Richards pulled a face. ‘I’ve a bit of a problem with my insurance, Reg. I don’t have her details. You know how it is. The last thing I want is the cops sticking their nose in. I’ve got her car. If I can just talk to her, I’m sure she’ll understand that the best thing to do is for her just to make good the damage. Let’s face it, if she’d been drinking, then she’s not going to want the cops involved, is she?’
‘Bloody right,’ said McKenzie. ‘Not with her being famous and all.’