Syd brings me my morning tipple and I sit up in my bed. I have to drink it quickly, as I don’t much like the taste of it, not that I know what it is. But it’s a part of my morning regime.
“You’re looking very summery this morning,” I say.
“It’s my new top,” she says delicately.
“I approve.”
“You have an interview with Blast! magazine at eleven.”
“Oh Christ,” I yawn. “Spare me. What for?”
“A profile for your new show, Who’s Gorgeous?“
“Do you think I look good in glossy mags?”
“It’s not for me to say really, Mr Vaughan.”
“Please, Syd, don’t call me Mr Vaughan. Call me Merlin.”
“Okay,” she says, but I know she won’t. She holds back a lot of things, Syd.
“You’d look good,” I say, handing her my glass.
“Thank you.”
“I can picture you in a centrefold.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t mean in a jazzmag – adult-orientated publication, I mean.”
“Okay.”
“Although I’m sure you would look good, startling in fact, not that I would know because I wouldn’t see it as I don’t go in for smut really. But if you did and you told me you were in one, I’d have a look, obviously – just to be nice. I wouldn’t get turned on or anything – not that you wouldn’t turn me on, I’m sure you would, but I’d probably have a quick look with one hand over my face – I mean, both hands over my face. I’d have both hands over my face and get someone else to turn the pages, not that I’d show it to anyone else, of course. I’d ask you to turn the pages for me.”
“I don’t think I’ll be doing any photoshoots anytime soon,” says Syd, heading over to the window and drawing back the curtains. “Your sower is running. Karl will be outside at ten thirty to take you to the Roxbury for your interview.”
“Thanks, Syd.”
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“No thanks, Syd. What’s in that drink anyway?”
“I don’t know. It arrives by courier every morning, courtesy of The Network.”
“You ever try it?”
“Off-limits to the likes of me.”
“I’ll see you later, Syd.”
Syd leaves and I pad into the shower. The water is hard and hot and my mind finds it’s clarity. I dress in my favourite three-piece and stare at myself in the mirror. How long have I been like this?
“I’m a superstar,” I say to my reflection. My reflection smiles back at me, reassuring me of the facts.
At the Roxbury I meet Paul Crapper, whom I recognise from his stint as letter editor on Bunny Bubbles. He was a hack then and he hasn’t gone up in the world. He has soup on his shirt collar.
“Good to see you, Merlin,” he says as we shake and sit down in front of a big poster of myself standing on the set of Who’s Gorgeous?
“No personal questions please,” I say.
“This new show is very interesting,” begins Paul Crapper. “It seems a tad cynical, in my humble opinion.”
“Well, Crapper,” I say, crossing my legs, “humble opinions are, if you’ll forgive me, your stock-in-trade. Who’s Gorgeous? is designed to expose the manipulation of the media in our vile, decadent world. You know, fashion and fascism are similar sounding words.”
“Purely phonetics,” counters Paul Crapper.
“Maybe,” I say. “But think about it. Adolf Hitler had a vision of a super race, all looking exactly the same. That was what he deemed acceptable. Look at fashion; we’re constantly told that we have to be an acceptable weight, made of a consumer-friendly design. Look at you, for example.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I’ll bet you haven’t seen any action in centuries. You’re blobby and pasty, but that’s just you. But we’re told that it’s a handicap. But what about your personality? Doesn’t matter. The damage has been done.”
“I was very much in love once,” say Paul Crapper, loosening his tie.
“What happened?”
“She left me.”
“Of course she did.”
“For Steve the IT guy.”
“Buff sort?”
“Never went through acne.”
“Shame.”
“I often think of looking her up.”
“Good idea, if you want to be a jellyfish.”
“Jellyfish?”
“I’m afraid it’s a world of takeaways and whores for you, Crapper.”
“Can we discuss the show?”
“Certainly.”
“Who are the panel of celebrities?”
“Lawrence Bernstein, legendary songsmith; Titty Roebuck, acclaimed stage actress and Hunter Mintz.”
“Whos Hunter Mintz?”
“I have no idea.”
“Any twists we can tell our readers about?”
“Did you just say ‘readers’?”
“I did. Why?”
“No reason. Anyway, a neat twist is that at no point during the show are the celebrity panel allowed to use the word ‘absolutely’. At the start of each show they will each be given a crib of alternative adverbs to use in it’s place.”
“Ingenious.”
“Absolutely. Well, time’s up, Crapper. It’s been a joy for one of us.”
I stand up and shake his fingernails. As I leave the Roxbury my phone rings and it’s Dr Kaspara.
“Hello, Doc.”
“Merlin,” she says. “We have a little problem…”
