off her heel. ‘They’re the only thing in my wardrobe that make my legs look like Cindy Crawford’s and I’ve got a date with that guy from the Picture Desk tonight.’
Chapter Three
W eaving her way through a gaggle of truanting teenagers and pursed-lipped, late-morning commuters, Polly jammed herself into the last cramped corner seat on the 10:48 to Waterloo. Her stomach was fluttering with more butterflies than a Kew Gardens conservatory and she was having to ram her trembling knees together to stop them banging against the officious-looking pin stripe next door. Her cheeks flushed as he misread the signs and wriggled closer.
Yuck, thought Polly, ignoring him and gazing out at the billboard posters and graffiti titivating the dirty station walls instead. At the same time, she wriggled a thumb into the waistband of Lucy’s skinny jeans to alleviate the bite marks. Trust me to set my heart on something two sizes too small, she reflected gloomily, cursing the triple choc-chip muffins from the deli round the corner. They only ever came in pairs, but if you guzzled one, you felt obliged to finish the other in case it developed isolation issues.
Caught up in the colourful chaos of Piccadilly Square thirty minutes later, she made her way through the hustle and bustle of a busy morning in Soho, retracing the very same steps that her hero Stephen De Vries had walked the previous morning. Grinding to a halt, and ignoring the wolf-whistles from a gang of predatory traffic wardens, she glanced up at an enormous brushed metal plaque.
GBA Pictures Ltd.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed the buzzer. A soft, husky voice answered immediately.
‘GBA, can I help you?’
‘Hi, I have an appointment to see Janie Reed?’
‘ You must be Polly Winters. Welcome to GBA. Right to the top of the stairs please.’ There was a low mechanical hum as the door unlocked.
Stepping into the lobby, Polly blinked and looked about in surprise. It appeared the lovely-sounding woman had beamed her aboard the USS Enterprise by mistake.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom , she noticed a small staircase opposite. She edged closer and came across a small gallery of framed GBA film posters. Before she could stop herself, Polly reached out to touch one then sprung away guiltily as a door at the top of the stairs banged opened and a surly but exceptionally beautiful girl flounced out. She had a icy cool detachment that only the ridiculously attractive possess.
Plastering a smile on her face, Polly belted up the steps but the girl simply glared at her.
‘Hello, I’m Polly ,’ she stammered.
The girl sniffed. ‘You here for the interview?’
Polly nodded brightly.
Frosty blue eyes softened then to show the faintest trace of pity before she barged past her and out into the street with a clatter.
‘Miserable cow ,’ muttered a voice, as a mass of dirty blond curls materialised in her place. ‘You must be Polly. I believe you’re here to see me?’
Polly re-attached her smile at record speed and shot out her hand.
Janie Reed was hauntingly pale and dressed from head to toe in black. The only splash of colour came from heavy purple shadows encircling both eyes, so conspicuous that for a split-second Polly thought she was sporting a pair of hideous comedy glasses.
‘Well come along, come along, no time to dawdle in the corridor ,’ she heard Janie say as she grabbed her wrist and frog-marched her across the hallway and into the production office. Polly stumbled in Lucy’s unfamiliar heels, ricocheted off the doorframe and only just managed to right herself before she collided with a large oval reception desk in front of her.
Behind a row of the messiest desks she had ever seen sat three women, their faces partially obscured by towering piles of documents, over-loaded paper trays and groaning lever arch files. Nearby walls were plastered in shooting schedules, telephone lists and old film location photographs. Even the computer
Chapter Three
W eaving her way through a gaggle of truanting teenagers and pursed-lipped, late-morning commuters, Polly jammed herself into the last cramped corner seat on the 10:48 to Waterloo. Her stomach was fluttering with more butterflies than a Kew Gardens conservatory and she was having to ram her trembling knees together to stop them banging against the officious-looking pin stripe next door. Her cheeks flushed as he misread the signs and wriggled closer.
Yuck, thought Polly, ignoring him and gazing out at the billboard posters and graffiti titivating the dirty station walls instead. At the same time, she wriggled a thumb into the waistband of Lucy’s skinny jeans to alleviate the bite marks. Trust me to set my heart on something two sizes too small, she reflected gloomily, cursing the triple choc-chip muffins from the deli round the corner. They only ever came in pairs, but if you guzzled one, you felt obliged to finish the other in case it developed isolation issues.
Caught up in the colourful chaos of Piccadilly Square thirty minutes later, she made her way through the hustle and bustle of a busy morning in Soho, retracing the very same steps that her hero Stephen De Vries had walked the previous morning. Grinding to a halt, and ignoring the wolf-whistles from a gang of predatory traffic wardens, she glanced up at an enormous brushed metal plaque.
GBA Pictures Ltd.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed the buzzer. A soft, husky voice answered immediately.
‘GBA, can I help you?’
‘Hi, I have an appointment to see Janie Reed?’
‘ You must be Polly Winters. Welcome to GBA. Right to the top of the stairs please.’ There was a low mechanical hum as the door unlocked.
Stepping into the lobby, Polly blinked and looked about in surprise. It appeared the lovely-sounding woman had beamed her aboard the USS Enterprise by mistake.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom , she noticed a small staircase opposite. She edged closer and came across a small gallery of framed GBA film posters. Before she could stop herself, Polly reached out to touch one then sprung away guiltily as a door at the top of the stairs banged opened and a surly but exceptionally beautiful girl flounced out. She had a icy cool detachment that only the ridiculously attractive possess.
Plastering a smile on her face, Polly belted up the steps but the girl simply glared at her.
‘Hello, I’m Polly ,’ she stammered.
The girl sniffed. ‘You here for the interview?’
Polly nodded brightly.
Frosty blue eyes softened then to show the faintest trace of pity before she barged past her and out into the street with a clatter.
‘Miserable cow ,’ muttered a voice, as a mass of dirty blond curls materialised in her place. ‘You must be Polly. I believe you’re here to see me?’
Polly re-attached her smile at record speed and shot out her hand.
Janie Reed was hauntingly pale and dressed from head to toe in black. The only splash of colour came from heavy purple shadows encircling both eyes, so conspicuous that for a split-second Polly thought she was sporting a pair of hideous comedy glasses.
‘Well come along, come along, no time to dawdle in the corridor ,’ she heard Janie say as she grabbed her wrist and frog-marched her across the hallway and into the production office. Polly stumbled in Lucy’s unfamiliar heels, ricocheted off the doorframe and only just managed to right herself before she collided with a large oval reception desk in front of her.
Behind a row of the messiest desks she had ever seen sat three women, their faces partially obscured by towering piles of documents, over-loaded paper trays and groaning lever arch files. Nearby walls were plastered in shooting schedules, telephone lists and old film location photographs. Even the computer
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