Not Dead Yet

too,’ he said, glaring at her. He wanted to tell her he wrote it, that his version of events was correct, regardless of what abomination those assholes at Brooker Brody had made it into. Instead he turned away. Fighting to bring his anger back under control.
    They stood in silence for the next ninety minutes. Finally it was his turn to sign on. He gave his name as Jerry Baxter. He was given a copy of the production shooting schedule and the Monday call sheet, and was then sent through to the upstairs room for male costume fitting. As he left, the fresh-faced young woman behind the desk smiled up at the next in line. ‘Your name, please?’
    ‘Anna Galicia,’ she said.
    ‘Do you have any acting experience?’ the woman asked her.
    ‘Actually, I’m a personal friend of Gaia.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes, really.’
    ‘You should have asked her to contact us – save you queuing.’
    ‘Oh, I would hate to bother her while she’s rehearsing. She likes to get into the zone before acting.’
    ‘I’ve heard that.’
    ‘She does, it’s true.’
    Anna Galicia signed the release form, and entered the details requested from her. She was given the production schedule, a call sheet for Monday, and was then directed through to the female costume room.
    It was full of fat women, slim women, young women, middle-aged women, squeezing into ridiculous costumes and ornate wigs. They were there for the money, the sixty-five pounds a day. They were there for vanity. For fun.
    None of them was there for the same reason as herself.
    None of the others was there because Gaia had personally asked them to be there, like she had asked her. To make amends for her behaviour at The Grand. She had been stressed out with jet lag. She was deeply sorry for her behaviour.
    Anna was big-hearted. She knew how to forgive.
    She’d forgiven her.

75
    After his costume fitting, Drayton Wheeler took the extras’ courtesy bus down to the centre of Brighton, then walked along to the Royal Pavilion, checking that one part of his purchase from Mothercare was safely in his pocket. He paid his entrance fee and went in. It was half past one. Over four hours before the place closed to the public.
    More than sufficient time, with luck.
    He made his way straight to the Banqueting Room, and was pleased to see it was packed with people, all slowly moving around the edge of the room, restricted by the ropes on their brass posts which kept them well away from the banqueting table. He was even more pleased to see there was only one security guard in here at the moment.
    He stopped only a short distance along, pretending to admire a handsome mahogany side table, laden with silverware. A couple with two bored children shuffled past, followed by a group of Japanese tourists, who stopped right in front of him. On the far side of the room the security guard was momentarily occupied preventing someone from taking a photograph. Now was perfect!
    No one noticed him slip his hand beneath the side table, and press something small and hard against the underside, holding it until he was certain the glue had taken. It took only a few seconds, during which the Japanese tourists had, very obligingly, not moved either.
    Then he shuffled on forward, going with the flow. Mission accomplished!

76
    ‘The bitch won’t let me!’ Glenn Branson said, storming into Roy Grace’s office shortly before 8 a.m. on Monday. ‘Can you believe it? The chance of a lifetime, something they could tell their children about one day, and their grandchildren!’
    Grace looked up from the notes his MSA had prepared for this morning’s briefing. ‘Won’t let you what?’
    ‘Take Sammy and Remi to meet Gaia’s kid, right?’
    ‘You’re joking!’
    ‘I am so not joking. I am seething. She said no. I asked them both when I took them out on Saturday afternoon, and they were thrilled to bits. I told you they’re both massive Gaia fans. So I told her they wanted to go, when I took them back.’
    ‘So, she can’t stop you. Just take them.’
    ‘She says Gaia is a symbol of sex and bad language and she’s not having her corrupting them.’
    ‘That’s ridiculous! Her little boy is six years old!’
    ‘You want to phone Ari and tell her?’
    ‘I will, if you like,’ Grace said, with false bravado. Not many things scared him in life, but Glenn Branson’s wife did.
    ‘I spoke to my solicitor over the weekend. She advised me not to force the issue, that Ari could use it against