TOYL

sakes.’

17

    Some years earlier

    ‘Excuse me, can I have your autograph?’
    Emma turned to look at the rather scrawny, acne-scarred man standing by the studio gates, who was holding out a note pad in expectation. He looked about eighteen, but was dressed more like an old man in grey trousers and a knitted jumper. A camera hung around his neck, and Emma immediately thought that he looked like a train spotter.
    Although a voice was telling her to politely refuse and walk on by, no one had asked for her autograph before. What harm could it do?
    She didn’t notice the warning signs of desperation in his eyes.
    ‘Sure,’ she said, moving back towards him. ‘No problem.’
    ‘Thank you so much,’ the guy gushed, as he handed Emma the pad and pen. ‘I’m so grateful to you for doing this. I thought you might be too busy – I know you’re busy – but it’s great that you can take the time for me.’
    ‘It’s no problem, honestly,’ Emma replied, holding the pen ready to write. The biro was about half its normal size; the plastic at the end was cracked and splintered. To her distaste she realised that the tatty, browning sellotape wrapped around the top of the pen was damp with what she could only think was saliva. She used her best acting skills to keep a calm face and just put up with it.
    ‘I’m your number one fan,’ he said. ‘I didn’t used to watch the programme that much. But since you’ve been in it I haven’t missed an episode. If I’m out when it’s on I video record it. Sometimes I video record it anyway, so I can watch it back as much as I want.’
    Emma waited to just write what she had to and then leave. She was already regretting this situation – the guy was harmless but weird with it.
    ‘I think you’re a fantastic actress,’ he said.
    ‘Thanks.’ She was embarrassed by the compliment. She didn’t look up at him, keeping her eyes on the pad, but he was ducking down to catch her attention.
    ‘I’m your number one fan,’ he repeated, as if looking for a response that hadn’t come the first time he’d said it. He edged forward, invading her personal space. Now he had her backed against the wall. ‘I know everything about you.’
    Alarm bells rang.
    ‘I hope not,’ she tried to joke, but it came out sounding nervous. She glanced across at the gates but the security guy who sometimes patrolled wasn’t there.
    ‘Your favourite meal is Lasagne, your favourite film of all time is Dirty Dancing . You’re a black belt in Karate. You started training at your high school when you were eleven, because a girl started bullying you in your art class. It only took you five years for you to get your black belt. This year you’re fighting in the British championships in Birmingham, but you’re finding it difficult to fit in the training now you’re working on the show. You’ve always wanted to be an actress, and you’d love to work on a film, but you don’t think you’re ready yet.’
    Emma shifted nervously. ‘How do you know all this?’
    ‘I read it,’ he said. ‘I always look for articles about you in the magazines. I never buy the magazines though – I read them in WH Smiths. They let you go there and read magazines for as long as you like – you can stand there all day and it’s all free. I like going there, especially when there are articles about you.’
    ‘Oh, the magazine article.’ She felt relieved that there was a rational explanation for his indepth knowledge of her personal history and preferences. ‘You read the interview in the magazine.’
    He nodded and smiled, revealing yellowing teeth and a waft of stale breath. It didn’t look as if he ever brushed. ‘I like reading articles about you.’
    She hadn’t really wanted to do the damn magazine interview, but her agent had convinced her that such self-promotion could lead to better acting roles in the future. In the end she had quite enjoyed the experience. But now, looking at this grinning man, she realised she had opened up part of her private life to strangers. It felt weird.
    ‘What would you like me to write?’ she said, holding the pen ready, still not wanting to look up at him.
    ‘Whatever you like,’ he said. ‘My name’s Stephen.’
    ‘Okay, Stephen.’ She wrote down a short note on the first available blank page, some three quarters of the way through the notebook. The rest of the pages were full of autographs, some of which she recognised as being from fellow cast