About That Night

ELAINE BEDELL was a BAFTA award-winning TV producer before becoming Controller of Entertainment at the BBC and Director of Entertainment & Comedy at ITV. She has commissioned and produced some of the UK’s most popular entertainment shows, including The X Factor, Strictly Come Dancing, Take Me Out, Britain’s Got Talent, The One Show, Top Gear and Saturday Night Takeaway. She lives in Hackney and has two children. She is currently Chief Executive of the Southbank Centre. About That Night is her first novel.

About That Night

Elaine Bedell

ONE PLACE MANY STORIES

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Elaine Bedell 2019

Elaine Bedell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008297695

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008297688

In memory of my dear dad Bert who should have lived to see it all.

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

Prologue

July 2017

Elizabeth Place is packing up her life. The protesting screech of duct tape and the thwack and swoosh of folding cardboard corners have been the soundtrack to her day. She’s surrounded by sealed brown boxes. Two muscular men arrived first thing in a white van with its big red boast ‘We’ll Make the Earth Move For You’ and stomped up the stairs to her first-floor flat, Where do you want us, love? Between them they carried a sofa, four chairs, a chest of drawers and her double mattress – up a bit, right a bit, upsy-daisy, there she goes, easy does it – while drinking twelve cups of tea with twenty-four spoonfuls of sugar.

Now only the boxes to go.

She sits and surveys her empty flat. She’s very tired and a little bit queasy if she’s honest (although she has an unfortunate inclination not to be honest, especially with herself). Her entire life has been swaddled, stacked and squashed into eleven cartons: thirty-five years of life, love and loss. Elizabeth isn’t much good at maths, but she knows that thirty-five doesn’t go into eleven without some leftover bits. What’s happened to the rest of her life? Those bits and pieces that might have caused her to tick another ten boxes?

She’s thirty-five and single. It wasn’t meant to be like this.

She reaches for the last empty box into which she’ll carefully stow the few remaining, very personal items. The things she’s left until last. Her National Television Award, still on the mantelpiece, sparkling bronze: Elizabeth Place, Producer: Best Entertainment Programme, Saturday Bonkers; a framed photo of her dear dad waving proudly at her down the years from the deck of a boat that isn’t his; the engraved card from ‘Matthew, Controller, All Channels’ which read ‘Only you could have got us through that show. Well done! X’; a black and white postcard of Paris, on which Hutch had written out an extract from Shelley’s ‘Love’s Philosophy’ along with the words Dear Miss Clumsy, I really miss you bumping into things; Elizabeth and Jamie, framed on their graduation day, carelessly waving their mortar boards in the air. And standing on its spine, propping up the rest, a valuable first edition of Yeats, given to her by Ricky one morning after a terrible night before.

Elizabeth tucks all these mementoes carefully away in the last box and closes the flaps quickly, like a ventriloquist silencing his troublesome puppets. All apart from the Yeats, which she clutches to her chest. She stands for a moment gazing at the empty spaces, thinking of the life she’s leaving behind. A life she has loved. A seductive life: of glamour, of glory, of giddiness. An addictive, adrenaline-fuelled roller coaster of a life, with all its exhilarating highs and exhausting lows. A dangerous life.

She’s independent, she’s strong, she says to herself. She’s really good at her job. She’ll do what her bible says and lean in (she hasn’t worked out exactly what this means, but she imagines it’s a bit like the plank, you just have to practice). She’s done with being caught in tangled webs of secrecy and lies. She’ll heed the warning signs, next time.

Won’t she?

Elizabeth wanders back into the bedroom, avoiding the bathroom. She’ll deal in a minute with the message in there that might change her life, that’s waiting for her in the cabinet, away from the prying eyes of the heavy lifters.

Elizabeth shivers slightly and sinking to the bedroom floor opens up the Yeats, carefully turning the precious pages. And there it is, on the title page, in Ricky’s big black sloping writing: ‘Dearest Elizabeth, I have spread my dreams under your feet’. Crazy, comic, complicated Ricky. His story wasn’t meant to end the way it did, one innocently blossoming day in May.

A Mayday.

Chapter One

Two months earlier

The audience are settling into their seats. They’ve been queueing outside the studio in the May drizzle for an hour and a half, an exercise in patience which might have been more bearable had anyone remotely famous walked by. An Ant. Or a Dec. They weren’t fussy. But one of the regulars, who’d been to recordings of the show at least twice before and had therefore brought a flask of hot chocolate, said that the stars use a secret tunnel entrance at the back of the studio building. Television stars, she explained patiently, don’t use main entrances. ‘Not even the Loose Women?’ asks a girl, shivering in bare legs and high heels. ‘No one,’ says the lady with the flask.

They’ve been herded like soaking sheep into the pens of the audience seating. Their mobile phones have been confiscated and will be returned to them at the end of the show. The lady with the hot chocolate, knowing the form, hangs back a little, watching as they fill the back seats first. She manages to get a seat in the third row from the front and surreptitiously opens up a packet of sandwiches. ‘The warm-up won’t be on for at least another half an hour,’ she whispers to the woman next to her. ‘Cheese and pickle?’

The set is much smaller in reality than it looks on the television. It consists of a shiny steel desk, surrounded by bookshelves laden with leather tomes, and a bright canary yellow velvet sofa. Five wide steps run up to the back of the set which serve as the entrance for the guests of the show. Wrapped around the set are a series of huge screens which display drone-captured scenes of planet earth at night, vast cities pin-pricked with glittering street lights, moonlit oceans and mountain ranges crested by stars.

‘Or tuna and cucumber?’

The audience is mainly female and they’ve come dressed for the occasion, eyeliner and foundation thickly applied, in case, just in case, there’s a fleeting shot of them clapping on camera. They’re hardened, battle-worn fans of the star of the show, the primetime entertainment king, Ricky Clough. They’ve been with him since he was a youthful breakfast DJ, have seen him through his career highs and lows. They’ve grown up through the years of his primetime, live, television show, Saturday Bonkers, watching it faithfully before going out to hit the weekend bars and clubs. But in recent months, Ricky’s audiences have been thinning, along with his hair, and a transplant on both counts has been necessary: he’s now been given his own chat show, The Ricky Clough Show, but not live, not on Saturday nights, and in the graveyard slot of 22.40.

The warm-up guy bounds on to the set, dressed in a tartan suit. He’s carrying a stick mic. ‘Right, ladies – and you few brave gents – are we ready to get this party going?’ he says. ‘ARE WE READY?’ The studio lights blaze on his entrance; for a brief moment he’s king of the court. He parades up and down the set, relishing the spotlight. The sound guys turn up the volume to DJ Fresh and the audience begin to shift in their seats, itching to get up and dance.

‘Okay. Five minutes till we start recording the show! Put your make-up on, ladies! Oh? You already have? Sorry, love. Now then. Take a good look at the person next to you. Is anyone here with someone they shouldn’t be? Because you’re about to be on telly – a television studio’s no place for people having affairs!’

Elizabeth Place, Ricky Clough’s producer, allows herself a small smile at this. She’s watching the warm-up from the comforting shadows of the black drapes that surround the studio. The entire audience is up on its feet, dancing along to ‘Ain’t No Stoppin’ Us Now’. Middle-aged women have shed their coats and their inhibitions and are dancing like teenagers. Elizabeth likes to watch them; she loves to hear the pre-show excitement build to a crescendo of hysteria. She thinks they might be in for a good night: Ricky was in a better mood than usual when she checked on him in his dressing room earlier. A bottle of white wine was open, but still full, and he didn’t drink at all while she went through his script with him. (Nonetheless, she had taken the precaution of hiding another unopened bottle under the sofa when he wasn’t looking.)

She turns to the black-shirted cameraman nearest her, Phil, leaning against his pedestal camera with his arms folded, his back turned firmly away from the disco-dancing divas. ‘How is he this evening?’ he asks her drily with a raised eyebrow.

‘Very lively,’ says Elizabeth with a smile.

‘Think we’re in for a good show?’ Phil asks.

‘Actually, yes.’

She skips up the spiral staircase that leads to the studio gallery, a rectangular box of a room with a long desk facing a bank of television screens, each offering different angles on the studio below. The director, Robin, is sitting in the middle of the desk, with the vision mixer beside him. He’s wearing a silk cravat and a velvet blazer. Elizabeth kisses him lightly on the cheek then takes her seat at the far end, next to the gallery assistant, Lola, who prints all the scripts, does all the timings and entertains the camera crew with stories of her recent breast enlargement procedure. She has platinum blonde hair piled impressively into a beehive on her head and is perfectly made up: heavy kohl eyeliner, white powder, bright red lips (Lola is in a perpetual state of mourning for the 1940s). She’s wearing a tight pencil skirt and a cropped knit sweater which shows off to full advantage her perky new breasts. She has an array of dangerously sharpened pencils in front of her, as well as two stopwatches.

Elizabeth never feels more alive than when she’s in the gallery, producing a show, sitting side by side with Lola. They’ve worked closely together for seven years, sharing every beat of every nail-biting show. Shoulder to shoulder they’ve somehow kept the show on the road, through all the ups and the downs, and have become firm friends. Elizabeth loves her job and she loves these moments just before a show most of all. She loves the precision of the preparation and the execution, the fact that everyone must move in synchronicity. She loves all the little meaningful rituals and habits which bind them all intimately together, like a professional family. She loves the thrill, the adrenaline, the buzz. She loves the way her heart beats painfully in her chest during a show and the fact that her brain never feels clearer.

Lola squeezes her hand as she sits and whispers, ‘I saw him in his dressing room. He seems on really good form. I don’t think he’s been drinking or anything.’ Lola’s eyes are shining, she’s happy. Elizabeth smiles and nods. As far as she knows, she’s the only person on the production team who has any clue as to the true nature of Lola’s relationship with Ricky.

‘Stand by studio floor, coming to you in two minutes.’

Elizabeth puts on her headphones and presses the button of the small console in front of her, saying softly into the small microphone, ‘Hello, Ricky. This is me. Just testing talkback. Can you hear me okay?’

‘Loud and clear, Mrs T,’ comes back the familiar voice of the star of the show in her ear. She can’t see him yet, but can hear from his breathing that he’s walking quickly down the corridor from his dressing room. She knows that his wardrobe assistant will be running along beside him carrying his jacket, which he never puts on until the very last second.

‘They’re a rowdy bunch tonight, can you hear?’

Elizabeth glances anxiously at the television screens that show her wide shots of the studio audience, up on their feet and dancing to ‘The Macarena’. They’re very pumped. She decides to ignore, as she always does, his reference to Mrs Thatcher. ‘See you on the other side, Ricky.’ She puts a smile into her voice.

‘See you on the other side,’ he replies, as he always does. And then, as he reaches the back of the set, before he leaps into the heat and glare of the spotlight, he addresses all the crew. His voice is deep and close into his microphone. ‘Elizabeth? Guys? Let’s make this a show to remember, eh? Let’s rock and roll!’

‘Fifty seconds!’ Lola announces loudly in the gallery.

‘Are the food props all standing by?’ Elizabeth asks and the clipped vowels of her young Etonian researcher, Zander, return in her ear. ‘Yes, ma’am, they’re under his desk.’

Elizabeth gathers the pages of her yellow script together and tidies them into a compact tome, her very own War and Peace. She glances at her mobile phone. There’s a thumbs-up emoji from Hutch and a picture of a double bed with a question mark. A shiver of pleasure and anticipation prickles all the way down her spine, but she puts her phone away. She finds her foot is tapping incessantly underneath the desk.

‘Twenty seconds,’ says Lola, placing her hand reassuringly on Elizabeth’s arm, but never taking her eyes from her stopwatch.

‘Have a good show, everyone!’ Elizabeth says, smiling down the desk at Robin. She gives him a mock military salute, which he solemnly returns. Everyone in the gallery is on the edge of their seats.

‘Ten seconds,’ says Lola, with a new warning note of urgency.

‘9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3…’

‘Roll titles!’ shouts Robin. The central screen, in front of the gallery desk, bursts into life with a cacophony of bright graphics, lurid yellow and blue shapes, which gradually form themselves into a giant head, the silhouette of a man in profile, with longish curly hair and an aquiline nose. The head dissolves into jigsaw pieces which re-assemble themselves into letters and finally words: The Ricky Clough Show.

In the studio, Ricky bounds down the stairs and runs to the front of the audience, as they whoop and cheer in concert with the warm-up who is conducting them from the sidelines. As he draws his hand across his throat they stop immediately as if they’ve been switched off and they sit back down, a bit disappointed and suspicious that the party might already be over.

‘Hello! Good evening and thank you for that warm hand on my entrance. Welcome to my show! Wanna know who’s on my sofa tonight?’ Ricky Clough is wearing his trademark purple suit, Doc Martens and a peacock blue custom-made shirt. His hair has been neatly combed to cover the seam of his transplant, but the curls reach down to his collar. He’s tall and his expanding girth is held in check by a clever combination of belts and expensive tailoring. His face is a light entertainment shade of polished conker. He has that unusual combination of camp and lascivious heterosexuality shared by so many successful performers. He paces restlessly around the set. His fizzing energy is almost electric. He’s an Icarus, Elizabeth thinks, you will burn if you get too close. It’s impossible not to look at him. He smiles brilliantly, revealing startlingly white teeth, as he ad-libs to the audience and cracks a joke at each of his guests’ expense, so that even Elizabeth – who’s seen it all before and knows his every facial tic – feels lost in wonder at his magnetic pull.

She presses the talkback button and says very quietly, ‘Ricky, Paolo’s ready – let’s bring him on to the sofa now.’ Paolo Culone, a young celebrity chef, is to be the first guest.

Ricky can hear Elizabeth’s instructions through an earpiece invisible to the audience and he responds smoothly by turning to the autocue camera that discreetly displays his script. He begins to read the words of his introduction. But as he moves towards his desk, he catches his foot on the step and stumbles, his arms momentarily flailing. The audience titter.

‘Whoa, babe, steady,’ Lola mutters under her breath.

Puzzled, Elizabeth kicks back her chair and goes to stand behind Robin, resting her hands on his shoulder, and they both lean forward, staring intently at their star’s face on the close-up cameras. His eyes are glittering in the studio lights and a sheen of sweat is already moistening his forehead. Nothing unusual in that, they’re used to seeing him in states of overexcitement, pumped by adrenaline, or wine – or worse. But as he arranges his cue cards on top of the desk, Elizabeth notices that his hands are shaking. His mouth is still moving but he’s stopped looking at the nearest camera. Instead, he’s looking down and his voice has dropped to a mumble. Elizabeth finds her heart beating faster. She doesn’t understand this unusual lack of grip from Ricky. Even when very inebriated, he can always keep the show going.

Robin jumps up crying, ‘Camera 5, pull wide! No close-ups. Stay wide!’

Elizabeth walks quickly back to her seat and Lola turns, her face full of panic. Elizabeth leans over the talkback microphone, presses down the button and reads from her script carefully and slowly, ‘Okay, Ricky, say after me… Now, most of us when we fancy a snack, think about a toastie, a steak bake or maybe some fish fingers…’ She turns her eyes to the bank of television screens and watches as Ricky slowly lifts his head and fixes his eyes, now glassy and unfocused, on camera 5. Out of his mouth, mechanically, come the words she recites in his ear…

‘But not my next guest, the man who invented the fish eyeball brioche! Ladies and gentlemen, Paolo Culone!’

‘Cue Paolo!’ cries Robin and the young whizz-kid of nouvelle cuisine comes running down the stairs and on to the set to wild applause, generated furiously by the floor manager. Only the lady with the flask and those sitting in the very front rows have noticed Ricky shaking and fumbling for his words and they are now sitting up very straight, alert to the exciting possibility of being witness to a proper show-business meltdown. Ricky doesn’t move from his desk chair as Paolo bounds on, but with a sort of superhuman effort, shifts in his seat so that he can greet the chef from a sitting position.

‘Ricky,’ Elizabeth continues, low and encouragingly in his ear, ‘the food props that you asked for are under your desk. You remember, we’re going to see if he recognises his own dishes by their smell. It’s a great idea – it was your idea, Ricky! Let’s do it now. They’re under your desk.’

Paolo sits down but is clearly uncomfortable with the surprising lack of a welcoming handshake. Nothing that the researcher backstage told him would happen appears to be taking place and so to fill the empty air-time, he begins to jabber nervously about meeting an X Factor finalist backstage. As he speaks, Ricky slides down in his chair and with a trembling hand, produces one of the dishes hidden underneath and places it shakily on top of the desk.

‘Mate, have some water,’ Paolo suddenly says, reaching for a glass decanter of clear liquid on a low side table. He pours a glass and hands it to him. Elizabeth puts her head in her hands and Lola cries, ‘No! Not the gin!’

But Ricky ignores the offered glass and instead eats with his fingers from the dish and licks them ostentatiously. He says, suddenly loud and clear, ‘Mmm, what do you call this dish again?’

‘Well,’ Paolo sits forward on the sofa excitedly, ‘that’s cockle ketchup and…’ but he stops mid-sentence, his mouth dropping open.

Ricky’s trembling hand, holding the dish, has suddenly dropped to his side and the plate falls to the studio floor with a clatter. His cheeks are bulging, as if with extreme exertion, his face is contorted and turning a dark purple. His shoulders suddenly seem to give way and his whole body sinks, as if loosed from its moorings. Up in the gallery, Elizabeth flies out of her chair as Lola cries, ‘Oh God! What’s the matter with him?’

The back rows of the studio audience are struggling to get into their coats and scarves because Elizabeth, taking no chances, has turned the air-conditioning glacially high in order to keep them awake. But an amused muttering begins to build amongst them – they’re clearly enjoying the extravagantly comic turn. The front rows on the other hand are half out of their seats, craning their necks to get a better look at the now slumped star of the show. The lady with the flask is foremost amongst them, the considerable weight of her experience sitting bored and cold in television studios telling her that none of this seems planned.

Under the heat of the studio lights, Ricky is momentarily motionless and a shimmering sliver of spit glistens its way down his chin. With enormous effort, it seems, he lifts his head and his bloodshot eyes search out his close-up camera. He holds its unforgiving gaze for an instant. But then his body twists and writhes, caught in the pitiless rhythm of its own maniacal dance, until one jerking spasm throws up his head and Elizabeth cries out in horror at his distorted face, his mouth gaping and gasping for air. Paolo leaps from the sofa with a scream, but still some people in the back rows are shrieking with laughter.

Elizabeth turns on her heel to run down the spiral staircase that will take her back to the studio floor. ‘Stop recording!’ she cries over her shoulder to the gallery. ‘And for God’s sake, get the warm-up back on.’

By the time she’s groped her way around the heavy black drapes that enclose the set and the audience, the warm-up is on the studio floor and calmly announcing that the show has been suspended. People are reluctantly gathering their things. On set, Ricky has slithered to the floor beside the desk. The floor manager is trying ineffectually to shield him with her own body from the openly gaping stares of the front rows. Paolo Culone is being ushered politely off the set by Zander, the researcher, whose face creases with alarm as he passes Elizabeth running in.

‘Ricky?’ Elizabeth bends low over her presenter’s head and gently touches his shoulder. ‘Ricky – can you hear me?’ Her touch seems to topple him, he rolls on to his back and she can’t help herself, she shrinks back in horror. The whites of his eyes have yellowed and a sudden spasm forces his head back, but his hand seems to find her wrist and his grip is like a vice.

‘Phone 999. Where’s the St John Ambulance attendant?’ Elizabeth shouts. She tries to find Ricky’s pulse. The flesh around his wristwatch is pudgy and his shirtsleeve is stuck to his skin with sweat. She sees Lola running into the studio and tries to restrain her but Lola sinks to her knees beside Ricky. She bends low to stroke his soaking forehead and whispers in his ear, ‘It’s okay, babe. Someone’s coming. Hold on. It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be okay.’

Elizabeth straightens up and says, ‘Get the audience out the back way. Now! Quickly! Keep the scene dock clear for the ambulance.’

She notices the cameramen are still standing by their cameras, watching curiously. They’ve seen people die in television studios before – they worked on Celebrity Wrestling – but this is definitely more sensational. Phil on camera 5, when he catches her eye, holds out his hands, palms upwards, as if to say, Who’d have thought…? She turns back in despair to Ricky and sees that Lola is kneeling and rocking beside him, almost in prayer. He is lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed, as if completely spent.

Then there are uniforms, men in hi-vis jackets saying, ‘Clear a space please, coming through’, and a stretcher. Ricky is laid out flat on the floor, behind the desk hidden from view, but he’s stiff and unresponsive, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. A machine is placed on his chest.

Elizabeth steps aside and takes a deep breath. She wants to be calm and capable, but she can barely think straight and her heart is pounding. She steels herself and pulls out her mobile to phone her boss: the Controller, All Channels.

‘Elizabeth? Um. Hi. Everything okay?’ Matthew sounds sleepy, slurred, like he’s just surfacing.

‘Ricky’s collapsed in the studio. The ambulance is here. They’re working on him now.’ Her voice is unnaturally high, but steady.

‘Jesus Christ! Working on him? What, like resuscitation?’ Matthew is suddenly alert. He hasn’t got where he’s got to without recognising a crisis when he’s just been told that there is one.

‘Yes. He just keeled over at the desk.’

‘Was he drunk?’

‘No. Well. Definitely no more than usual.’ The paramedics are standing up. Ricky is lying inert on the floor. She whispers into the phone, ‘Um, I think he’s – dead.’

‘Dead? Oh God! Poor Ricky. The poor old bugger. You know, I feared it might come to this… Christ – what did the audience see? We need to manage this. Call the press office. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’

‘Um, we should ring Lorna. His wife? Do you want to ring her…?’ There’s no response on the end of the phone. ‘Or shall I?’

Matthew hesitates. ‘Can you do it, Elizabeth? As you were there, you know. In case she wants any details. You’ve worked with Ricky for so long, she knows you two were close. And you were there, at the house the other week, at Ricky’s party. I think it might be better coming from – you know – a woman.’ He pauses and Elizabeth can’t help thinking that Matthew was at that party too – he was the one who gave Ricky his big break in the first place – he’s known them for years. But she says nothing and so Matthew adds with some relief, ‘Right, I’m leaving now. Elizabeth?’

‘Yes?’

‘You okay?’

Elizabeth presses her cheek against her phone. ‘Yes,’ she says finally, ‘I’m alright.’

The ambulance crew lifts the body on to the stretcher. ‘We’ll take him to St Thomas’s, love,’ one of them says to Elizabeth. ‘It’s Ricky Clough, right?’

‘Yes. Thank you. Does someone need to travel with him?’

‘No, not necessary.’ The ambulance man looks at Elizabeth carefully to see if she has understood and she nods. ‘I’ll phone his wife and tell her that’s where he is.’

Once the ambulance has gone, the cameramen pack up their equipment in respectful silence. The last few members of the audience are filing out of the side doors, whispering in hushed voices. They’re unsure what they’ve just witnessed, but it was definitely more eventful than the last Ricky Clough show they saw. Lola is sitting in the front row, crying into some paper napkins from the canteen. The rest of the crew have also gathered on the studio floor and are standing about looking stunned. The researcher, Zander, tells Elizabeth that Paolo Culone is now in the Green Room, happily drunk on the show’s warm white wine and has the X Factor finalist sitting on his lap.

‘He thinks it’s all a planned joke.’ Zander’s solemn grey eyes turn towards her, searching for guidance. He’s in his late twenties, tall and very lean, with broad bony shoulders; good-looking in that well-bred way with soft curly hair – neatly and expensively cut – and a warm, charming smile. His impeccable Etonian manners make him an excellent booker of celebrity guests: he’s unfailingly polite but incredibly thick-skinned, and simply never takes no for an answer, without ever seeming to offend.